Mould; (2/5); for EVERYONE

[perfectingart]

Baekhyeon rides for four hours. He has missed his Aeri, so he indulges, taking a twisted route, passing through the narrowest of alleys.

Engine oil lies darkly under his fingernails. Scratches run parallel the nail beds where the skin is vulnerable. He has had to clean a few components, then oil them again. His hands never felt so raw and battered. An exhilarating tingle runs through them.

His mood plummets as he steps inside, only to spot Jongin on the floor drinking something from a ceramic bowl and laughing at the TV. A show about autopsies is playing. Baekhyeon sees an empty makgeolli bottle under the table. Another one rolls back and forth under Jongin’s foot, perhaps still full.

A saw cuts a ribcage open, and Jongin laughs again, reaching for a bite of some cake. One of kimchi follows, with the same fork, cream left on red spice.

Baekhyeon approaches with caution. Jongin’s whole state speaks of fragility. Baekhyeon’s intrusion may be unwanted.

“Hyeong,” Jongin mumbles then, and his gaze snaps right up at Baekhyeon. Pale ochre projects on his face from the screen- a close up of the back of the corpse. His smile turns lazy, comfortable, shadows thin. He pats he place next to him.

Baekhyeon does sit, the creaking of his clothes sounding like unhinged bones. Jongin noses into him, sniffing audibly. “This suits you better than the bergamot,” he says, and Baekhyeon feels the bite of alcohol being pressed into his cheek. “How cool it is of you to wear gasoline instead of cologne like all of us mere mortals.”

Commercials are on. Finally enough brightness for Baekhyeon to distinguish anything on his face. He is just drunk, eyes glassy and lips a bitten mess. As colours flash across his features, it looks all the more woeful. He was fine when Baekhyeon left.

“What’s the occasion?” Baekhyeon asks.

“Today’s our anniversary!” he slurs, throwing his arms in the air in celebration. They fall on the bowl. He brings it in to lick the rim, where a droplet was running down. “I mean, Sujeong and I have six years today. I mean, if she was still around? Still mine? But she isn’t, and I’m too drunk to use tenses properly.”

Baekhyeon feels inutile. He has no idea how to soothe Jongin’s ache- there are no Band-Aids for such things. He cannot really relate to the feeling either. He has never lost anyone; he has never had anyone to lose.

“Hey,” Jongin calls, and he looks over, bypassing the devastation of Jongin’s visage to the fork now pressed to his lips. “New recipe. Matcha. Try it.”

He has to give in to the insistent push of the prongs. The sweet sponge dissolves in his mouth, cream overwhelming the delicacy of the green tea. It is perfect, and he finds himself grinning despite the grimness of the atmosphere.

Jongin grins too. “The red is nice,” he says, eyes on Baekhyeon’s hair, before popping the fork in his mouth, licking whatever Baekhyeon did not. “Sujeong looked amazing with red hair.”

Then the show begins again, where it left off with some organ harvesting. Baekhyeon only focuses enough to remark that this is a car crash related death, before his attention goes back to Jongin. He is not laughing anymore. His tongue just dips in the brimming bowl of makgeolli every few seconds, not fazed the slightest by the carnage in front of him.

He is not really drunk, Baekhyeon soon realizes. It is just heartache peaking with a nudge from alcohol, the dense lacquer of sadness thick over his eyes.

Jongin does not elaborate, does not offer context, but the word Sujeong would be whispered here and there with different intonations, either breathy or angered. Baekhyeon lets him be; just feeding some snacks between every sips of makgeolli.

The show is over. The bottle is empty. “I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t stop missing her,” he says in a drawl. It is as if he is finally noticing the cause of his throes. “Bet this is some unrequited longing. Bet she does not give a fuck about my sorry ass anymore.”

He looks on the verge of passing out, not even bothering to open his eyes after the last blink. Baekhyeon gets up, taking Jongin along as he drags him to his room. He falls on the bed with a groan, sounding watery as he has to swallow a mouthful of saliva. “I have way more ass than her though.” He shuffles around, hands going underneath himself as he grabs his cheeks. “Definitely more ass. Why does not she want my ass back? My ass is so- ”he does not finish. His palms wiggle over the mounds a bit more before he drifts off.

Baekhyeon leaves a bottle of water on his nightstand- not a glass; he always knocks stuff off in his sleep.

Jongin has not really grieved so far. It has just been the chase of exploiting the feeling, but the cracks have never settled back in place.

It has begun now. Jongin is never still, never writing, never doing anything but watching massacres. His phone never leaves his hands either, and Baekhyeon only peeks enough to discern that he is chatting with someone. He rarely sees any bubbles on the left side.

Baekhyeon wants to help, wants to be able to do something. At this age, he has had no time to break any hearts; all he could do was memorize Liszt until the day bled into the night.

But what he can do is risk his life and go out to buy Jongin’s favourite snacks.

A week later his disposition shifts. He rises early, angry, quarrelling with pots, with the washing machine, with the streak of motor oil Baekhyeon accidentally smeared on the wall by the door. By afternoon, he is weepy, twisting on the couch as he reads some manga. He pokes at Baekhyeon too, mostly inquiring about the celebrity life. Baekhyeon lets him read through his fan mail and the comments on his social media.

Mozart would cream himself for you, reads a comment, and Jongin laughs so hard that his jaw pops out of the socket.

It is a nice distraction, even if it is a façade, a coping for distress. Because Baekhyeon can only leave the house when it is dark, now that his motorcycle is recognizable. He would rather have Jongin jumping him with broomsticks than by smothered by silence as he tries not to listen to symphonies, not to tap his foot, not to imagine music anymore.

They start going out at the same time, just as plum spills over the sky, Baekhyeon taking the elevator a story lower to the parking lot. Jongin is bundled in knitted fabrics, colourful and thick, whilst Baekhyeon is all pitch black leather.

Jongin is back at 10 on the dot every night. Baekhyeon makes it at 9.

“I think I’ve just hired myself at a café,” he says as he rushes straight into the bathroom, just as Baekhyeon is brushing his teeth. He takes a ribbon of toilet paper and blows his nose loudly, nearly loosing half a lung. He smells of oncoming winter. “Not very hired. Just a little.”

Baekhyeon spits out the toothpaste. “Are you hired or not?”

“I am. For four hours a day, three days a week.”

Four hours of pleasing someone else. Being bossed around a little will do him good.

“Nice, you’ve been pickling in this apartment for too long.” Baekhyeon pats his shoulder on the way out.

While Jongin is gone, Baekhyeon plays all kinds of games. He never really gets into them, never found that yank of rivalry, of wanting to beat a score. But it is a gratifying pastime, so he gets to chitchat with Jongin once he comes home at eight, flashing a wine-stained smile.

He has read all of Jongin’s books in the meantime. They are all heavily underlined, entire pages stained blue, comments littering each sliver of blank space. Surprisingly, he has no copies of his own publications lying around. Baekhyeon abstains from purchasing them- it would feel like breaching some sort of agreements now that they are close, and that would disrupt the slightly precarious camaraderie they have fallen into.

Baekhyeon watches Jongin frantically search for the mate of the one sock he is already wearing. He is so late right now, so Baekhyeon just throws him a pair of his own. He is just fiddling with the buttons of his parka when he suddenly looks at Baekhyeon, the urgency gone. “Wanna come along?”

Baekhyeon agrees to it in a heartbeat, with Jongin throwing clothes at him from the closet as he puts them on with maximum efficiency. They pant as they run down the street to the café, fast enough that nobody has the time to identify Baekhyeon. When they burst through the door of the cafe, they are breathing hard, and Jongin starts chuckling. Baekhyeon does too, even as he crouches, hands on his knees. Then Jongin is swept away from him, and he is left to appraise the café.

It is fancy, filled with intricate tapestry and dark maroon furniture. The space is open; the tables close together while still giving off the vibe of intimacy. Coffee and orange rind is fragrant in the air. It is totally the kind place to offer a glass of wine next to that tart.

The far wall hosts a bookcase up to the ceiling. There is no room to fit another spine.

He nears the counter, all of it strewn high with small jars filled with tea and flowers. Light filters through them like it would through stained glass. The girl behind the register looks at him with a dazzling smile, according to the policy, before it fades, the curvature migrating to her eyes. Baekhyeon looks past her, where Jongin is at the far back still buttoning his shirt as he bows repeatedly to someone, patting his flushed cheeks from the cold, lips half into a pout and half into a smirk. He is just charming his way out of being scolded. Baekhyeon titters- it is such a Jongin thing to do.

“What can I get you?” the girl asks. Her voice is high, the seething of a deflating balloon. She is extremely beautiful with feminine features and a slightly tomboyish demeanour. Taeyeon, the nametag reads. Jongin had mentioned her.

“Coffee,” he decides. He really has not had any good stuff in a while. His answer is inexplicit, for she beings inquiring details to his order, but then Jongin is coming forward, his uniform still messy, donning the triumphant grin of someone who just escaped the claws of death.

“I’ll do it. I know what he wants.” Then he leans over the counter to whisper to Baekhyeon, “I’ve just learned how to use this apparatus.” His head shortly jerks in the direction of the espresso machine. “Trust me, hyeong.”

Baekhyeon cannot say no to that. He turns back to Taeyeon, her face being even more surprised, and slides his card forward. She asks for one more signature beside the needed one.

He wanders in the café, choosing one of the small ornate futons perpendicular to the bookcase. The customers are scarce- three couples, a lone young woman, a lone elderly man. No one pays him any mind.

The first book that he sees is an old one, yellow, the print discoloured, a lot of Hanja. He snaps a picture of the cover, sending it to Chanyeol. It is all reflex by now.

Baekhyeon finds himself drawn to the language just two sentences in. It is archaic, satiric, a refreshing blend. He does not realize that someone has been sitting in front of him until he hears the scratch of unpolished china on buffed wood. Jongin’s fingers on the saucer- bronze on sterile white.

He puts the book down before considering the black liquid with suspicion. Jongin looks at him with some unfathomable hopefulness, apprehension and amusement all rolled in the slant of his eyebrows.

Baekhyeon takes a sip.

“Is it terrible?” Jongin asks. He abominates coffee.

Baekhyeon’s tongue recoils from delectation, searching fanatically for more. “It is absolutely terribl just right.”

Jongin’s response is instantaneous, a shimmy of his sips, all festive, and Baekhyeon thinks that this is the first time he sees how pure, unadulterated joy looks on Jongin. He is all healed, for a split second, and it is bright and blazing and Baekhyeon has to look away.

He then disappears to tend to the tables, leaving Baekhyeon with his coffee and his book. All it takes is for Jongin to throw him a faint grin over his shoulder as he takes the order from a nearby table for Baekhyeon to know that he will be coming here a lot from now on.

It is liberating to step down from the protagonist role, to go away into an imaginary life for a few hours at dusk. He holes himself in a cranny of the café, little paper cuts accumulating on the pads of his fingers, stinging as they touch the scalding walls of the coffee cup.

He drinks two, before Jongin is untying his apron and coming to fetch him, a droopy smile on his lips as he asks, “What are you reading?”

Then they would both stroll through the chilly air back home, Baekhyeon always half-hidden behind Jongin as he says this and that regarding the story of the current book. Jongin would reword it, absently, as he twirls between the aisles of the tiny supermarket next to their building, putting stuff in the basket Baekhyeon is holding.

At home, they cook together, something probably unhealthy but delicious. Baekhyeon is the one washing the dishes, for Jongin is already yawning over the stove as he makes himself an enormous pot of black tea. He is tired, and he wants to write. Wasting energy on dish washing is not an option. He leaves Baekhyeon with them, padding out of the kitchen with the teapot and a tiny pat on Baekhyeon’s butt.

At night, he does not toss for hours in his bed before he falls asleep.

Before, he had been plagued by music, notes coming together in disarray, a melody unsettled between his ears, and he would correct it, compose it mentally, polishing and polishing until the sun was raising and his face was taut from the yank of irritation. It was something forced- an inoculated necessity. His next album has to have a spectacular central piece.

But there will be no next album.

So now, all he thinks about is snippets of the story he has read today, what he will do tomorrow. Often he will be stretching in bed, poses askew from the give of the mattress, as he excitedly chats with Kyeongsu or Chanyeol or both of them, immersing himself in dry humour and bickering until his cheeks hurt from smiling.

To Kyeongsu: Im becoming so enlightened. u should read too, to keep the approaching dementia at bay.

From Kyeongsu: r u looking at a hot guy right now?

“How did he know?” Baekhyeon whispers to himself. Only the bookcases around hear him.

The sun doesn’t even compare, he sends the text. He looks ahead, then back down and types another one. Omg omg he’s wearing this tiny-ass apron.

From Kyeongsu: Rip you

It is better that Baekhyeon glares down at his phone than follow the shimmy of Jongin’s hips behind that poor excuse of a garment.

U suck, kyung-alzheimer-soo

It is not the first time for this to happen, but only now does Baekhyeon feel affected by it. It is too soon, and too powerful. This sequence becomes more and more noticeable, Baekhyeon keen on noticing it.

One minute Jongin is having his laptop on the edge of the couch, turned over, and then there is a sigh and the click of the lid closing. The patter of his feet as he walks to his room, then rustles, the soft creaking of mattress springs, Jongin’s breathing tinting the quiet air. He moans softly, just started sounds that peter before they get the chance to climax. He seems intent to keep quiet, even as it is something quick, a hastiness to the sounds that speaks of a long while of being riled up, rather than seeking some brief mediocre relief along the way. There is the thump of his hips bouncing off the mattress as if they are pushing greedily into the tugging of his palms.

Baekhyeon has a moment when he wants to curse his perfect hearing, and how much he longs for melodies, given he is so pleased with what Jongin is offering him.

There is nothing but silence when he comes; all the more shocking smack in the middle of the rustle he has provoked.

Then the key tapping resumes, so fast that it is monotonous, and Baekhyeon falls asleep to it.

He wakes at the crack of dawn to tug over himself the blanket that has fallen off, and still, the sound of tapping has not ceased.

Jongdae approaches with a lag to his steps. His head is lowered, chin into his chest, eyes probably closed. The weight of the backpack drags his shoulders down.

When he sees Baekhyeon at the entrance of his building he seems to sober up a bit, kitty-curls appearing at the corners of his mouth. It is deep into the night and he is only now coming back from hagwon.

Baekhyeon pats the seat of the motorcycle, letting Jongdae climb on it. “I’ll let you ride it after you pass sooneung,” he says. His bloodshot eyes light up, and it seems off, a sparkle in a pool of exhaustion.

The debris of his own words starts tasting tart in his mouth. Chances are he will be dead before that, maybe the motorcycle coming along with him. Promises. He should not be making these anymore. They will be left unfulfilled.

But Jongdae does not know that. He still chats about random stuff that happened at school, which are some super boring things, so he complains about them all whiny and pouty. He wants to ask Baekhyeon to take him on a ride right now. Baekhyeon denies him; for he is sure he will fall asleep on his back and will fall off. Instead, he offers him a bag with baked goods from Jongin’s café, and insists that he has some right now. He will tumble right into bed as soon as he gets home, the ache of an empty stomach forgotten. Baekhyeon sends him up with a thick wad of pocket money.

The malodour of burnt rubber always takes him back to the day he had felt the first pains. Fatigue, irritability, all that he had tried to fight with vitamins, painkillers, until it became too much and he had to cancel a concert.

At the clinic, he left four autographs behind and took with him a death sentence.

Baekhyeon fanboys over Jongin’s- Kai’s- books to Chanyeol. There are so many quotes and funny phrases and some amazing paragraphs. He has never been one to read out of sheer like for it, rather it was a means of filling idle time. He sends picture after picture, and Chanyeol replies with audio notes, snippets of whatever he is working on in the studio.

Whenever Jongin passes by the corner of the café he is hiding in, Baekhyeon covers the book in his hands with another one. Baekhyeon sends him a smile and an encouraging fist.

Baekhyeon meets Sehun after he wakes up from a nap, padding to the kitchen while rubbing at his eyes. He did not even bother pulling up his pants from where they have slid low on his hips from the tossing. He collides with a sturdy back, ricocheting with a little “Ow.”

As his vision clears, he appraises the man who has turned. His face has crisp features, a narrow mouth. His ridiculous height culminates in a mop of silky blond hair.
He can be no one else other than Sehun. Sehun seems to know who he is too. So he just offers a nod, not really a bow, as he rounds the counter to reach for some water.

Before he can ask is Sehun wants some too, his gaze falls to the wrinkled papers laid out on the kitchen island. It was just two test results that he had thrown away, some delayed biopsies that came in the mail. He had binned them haphazardly, in a hurry to reach Jongdae and give him a ride to school like he vouched. They have his name all over them.

There are other pieces of trash on the table. A few wrappers, and a few crumpled neon-coloured paper squares.

“Did you find it?” Jongin says from his room, and he says it quietly, conversational, too absorbed in his writing. Then he catches himself and asks again, louder.

“I did,” Sehun replies, eyes drilling into Baekhyeon’s. A green square is in his hand. On it, the name of one of Jongin’s current side characters is written, along with a number. It is a shoe size.

He pivots, traipsing towards Jongin’s room. He has the gait of someone too in tune with their own body.

“Hug, hug,” Jongin whines, lifting from his seated position with a wince. Baekhyeon sees it all from this angle. Sehun’s impassive face cracking as Jongin drapes himself over him, stretching up on his tip toes. Sehun’s arms wind around him too, and Baekhyeon does not hear it, but the flutter of a giggle appears to be quivering in their pressed chests.

Sehun lets him go, and Jongin melts right back into the activity he was engaged in.
Baekhyeon’s mouth is numb from the freezing cold water. Gooseflesh erupts on his skin, maybe from the intense stare Sehun is giving him. It is some form of pity, the belittling kind.

He does not say anything to him, however, mouth thinned as he gathers all the papers. He rips them, balls them, and puts them in the pocket of his jacket instead of the bin. Then his shoes are on and the door is closing after him.

Baekhyeon has never choked on silence. It washes pleasure down his throat, an ache that does not acknowledge itself, a feeling to be addicted to, once insensate enough to claw at walls out of ennui, or despair.

Come morning, Baekhyeon bags all the wristwatches he has. They are not many, not here, few have been brought from Seoul.

They are expensive, stupidly so. Most are worth more than the tuition he did not sleep to pay for. Now they are just reminders of unnecessary pain.

He leaves the bag at the foot of the dumpster outside the building.

Baekhyeon enters the café at half past six. He has not come with Jongin today- he has been on a ride to Incheon, just to test the new gear he has bought. He had felt no nippiness.

Does not mean that he does not revel in the warmth from inside, thick with aromas. Jongin is nowhere to be seen- just Taeyeon arranging the sweets display. From one of the tables in the back, he picks up a gasp, a pair of eyes boring into his nape. No footsteps. It is just a normal fan, not a crazy one.

Jongin pops up out of nowhere, as if he was crouching behind the counter, a marker in his mouth. He is holding a piece of paper that he sticks with a two Apeach stickers to the cash register. Part time employee wanted. Jongin’s cutely messy handwriting ends with a winking emoticon.

Jongin’s tongue pokes between his lips, beside the marker, as he adjusts the ad so that it will stay straight.

Baekhyeon is moving before he knows it, approaching the student who is studying next to the windows, asking her for a piece of paper, a small, pleading grin on his lips. She scrambles for it at one, eyes filled with adulation as he thanks her.

Jongin’s greeting dies in his throat as Baekhyeon unceremoniously snatches the marker away from him. He scrawls his name on the paper, his experience, and in the corner draws a half-assed representation of his face. “I’m applying,” he says, and Jongin, who has been stating at him all along, breaks into a chuckle.

“I’m here to interview for the vacant position,” Baekhyeon voices, standing straight in the office. Jongin, behind him, still has not stopped chuckling.

The owner is a small man, cheeks round. He looks like a schoolboy with a too talented frown. He assesses Baekhyeon with a straight face, looking him up and down. Baekhyeon is indeed dressed in all leather, the whole deal- tall collar and gloves, hair an untamed orangey chaos from the helmet. He inches closer, to put the piece of paper on the desk in front of the man. On the nameplate it says CEO Kim Junmyeon.

“But,” he says, eyeing the paper for just a second. “You’re….Byeon Baekhyeon?” he croaks.

“Yes, he’s the piano superstar,” Jongin bursts, too bold, before he remembers that he is talking to his boss. Baekhyeon can do nothing really but laugh. Jongin is glad that he is here with him.

“I’ve worked in the industry before. I have two years of experience. Please give me a chance,” Baekhyeon says, cheery as a sparrow. Junmyeon continues surveying the resume for a while, dumbfounded. His frown deepens, climaxing into a coil that seems rather painful. He sighs all of a sudden, regarding Baekhyeon. “Okay, you’re in.”

As they leave the office, Jongin’s hip knocks into his. Baekhyeon rebounds from the force, nearly falling in a heap of giggles. “You’re finally de-pickling too.”

His hips do not fill the apron as nicely as Jongin’s do, but he does get his fair trade of looks as well. It is nice to work like this, to know that at four on the dot he will be all dolled up, catering to customers, mindless and satisfying.

He is asked to take selcas with a few people, and he complies easily. A peace sign along his jaw, the cheek of a delighted fan pressed against his. Others would be more daring, would demand hugs, kisses, tug at his clothes. Then there are the shy ones who simply inquiring if he is tired, is he has eaten, when he is coming back.

The sales grow. The café is nearly always full during his and Jongin’s shift, waiters swarming frantically to keep peace. Junmyeon’s eyes glow whenever he sees the sales report.

But then there will be quiescence, late afternoons, when the calm and chaos combine and he has time to interact with Jongin, to listen to his commentary, sneaky nothings that he manages to extract from the customers. Baekhyeon wonders if it is the scent of orange rind that brings him so much contentedness, or the breathy whispers Jongin leaves by his ear as he twirls around, a decanter in his hand, promising him a night of watching cartoons on the couch.

Chanyeol sends him short videos of his new group. The girls are falling over themselves in the practice room, tangled in a very jumpy choreography. Chanyeol is still so proud of them. Baekhyeon can hear his cheering behind the camera. He wants all five of them to shine. This is the first group that is entirely under his guidance, that he is the sole producer of.

In the background, the song can be heard, then Chanyeol’s gruff voice coming over the receiver. “This is tiring. I can’t keep up with them,” he mutters.

Baekhyeon laughs. He did catch Chanyeol’s reflection in the mirror, gawkily trying to follow along. Sehun’s silhouette was somewhere around there too. “Well, you tried. And you’re already married, so you do not need to seduce anyone anymore.”

He chuckles. Baekhyeon notices it is a bit runny. Perhaps he has caught a cold. His immune system is comically incompetent.

“I never knew how much I liked cheesecake,” Baekhyeon says, dipping his fork again in the last slice he saved from the display. “Cheesecake is amazing. Jongin makes amazing cake. And Jongin himself is amazing.”

“Are you drunk?” Chanyeol queries as Baekhyeon’s own words diffuse into twitters.

“Possibly. This cake is so good. I could be drunk on goodness.” His tongue tickles from the mild sourness of the cream cheese.

“Are you,” Chanyeol begins. Baekhyeon can barely hear him over the smacking of his mouth. “Is everything okay?”

The texture of the crust in his mouth is different suddenly. Maybe he just reached a part where the cream soaked through. “Yes,” Baekhyeon says. “Believe me. Yes.”

Amber calls him incessantly. The news is all over the place: Baekhyeon is wiping tables now.

Baekhyeon accepts a call at last. “It’s exposure,” he reasons. There is a burn on his wrist from where he has misused the steam wand. “All exposure is good exposure.” The motto of all starving artists. He never got to be one.

She finally seems to calm a little. “This may do you good when you come back. Make sure to win as many hearts as possible.”

Amber’s anger has always been the distanced kind, projective- she is mad at him giving up, and wasting his potential. Something is being kept from her. And this, Baekhyeon thinks yet again, is the purest form of respect he will ever receive.

They are the ones closing the shop tonight. Just a yellow light over the tea shelves, a red one over the main counter.

Jongin fiddles with the security system before he is taking in a deep, motivational breath and stepping outside. Baekhyeon feels the slap of the coldness too, his whole body constricting. Jongin is then impulsively reaching for his arm- two fingers and his thumb around the wrist, directly on the skin- and yanking him along into a jog. He does not let go, even as they stumble into one another, the white clouds of their puffing breaths intertwining and blinding them both.

One turn and one block away, when their legs are burning and they are sweating under their coats but still freezing, Baekhyeon asks Jongin. “What are you suffering this for?”

Jongin is still panting, looking from left to right. They are on a shortcut now, the alley narrow and poorly lit. No human in sight. Jongin chuckles, dense alabaster curls from his mouth. “It clears my mind. And I can shamelessly ogle humans. And I hate coffee. I’m bound to be good at doing it.”

His hand drips from the wrist to Baekhyeon’s palm, glove on glove. He grabs tight. “You?” Jongin asks, a smile, then he picks up the pace, sprinting. The ground is iced over, his heart has gone crazy, and he cannot tell if he even has a pair of lips anymore. Jongin will not let him lag behind.

Jongin peeks in disdain at the entrance to their building. The light is stunning. Baekhyeon feels the blunt waves of pain at the back of his skull.

In the elevator, Jongin lets go. They see their reflection in the closed door, distorted on sanded metal, smudges of red on their faces. It is finally warm enough to feel something.

His chest has no chance to calm down, for Jongin begins laughing, these little deep huffs, and Baekhyeon follows too. He can see the square stretch of his mouth, and Jongin’s triangular one, blinding, and they just crumble into one another until the elevator dings.

“And for moments like these,” Jongin says, high with ebbing mirth. His shoulder scrapes by Baekhyeon’s; gazing down at him with a look so sunny that Baekhyeon feels something inside him melting.

“Yeah,” he agrees lightly. This is what he is living for.

Baekhyeon does not have to know her to recognize that the woman Jongin is fixating on is Sujeong, the rooster. Jongin’s eyes widened, his hand stalling on the rug he was using to wipe the counter. A tremble runs through his body, otherwise petrified.

It occurs to Baekhyeon that he never talks about her anymore, he does not know whether they have completely cut contact of if there is still a text here and there. It is unsettling for Baekhyeon to have such a close relationship with Jongin and to be unaware of of something that is affecting him so much. Perchance, their proximity has a limited depth, and an endless scope.

Baekhyeon cannot go, for he is stuck mixing drinks, and Taeyeon is on too many tables already. Jongin’s nervous mannerisms are few and refined, trivial angle changes on his visage. It is just a bite of his lip, a flash of white over the pink, before he is plastering a grin of his face, counterfeit, rounding the counter and marching towards her.

She is with a friend, who greets him first, jubilant surprise all over the lustre of her face. She is short haired, and blonde, her cheeks high and full. Jongin interacts with her rather than with Sujeong, whose reaction at seeing him is similar to his.

Baekhyeon does not hear what they are talking about, but the blonde laughs, something gruff and homely, and it infects Jongin too, a little. They look close- the type of buddies to only see each other once a year and cram so much joy in it that there is no need to do it again until next fall.

He does not exchange a word with Sujeong. He puts her drink on the table with a curt little bow and never glances at her again until they are gone.

For the rest of their shift, Jongin offers to the customers that vacant simper Baekhyeon had seen at the beginning. He knows it is bad when the tiny block notes he is always carrying in his apron pocket is left under the bar counter. It is only his third week working here and he has already burned through six of these.

So Baekhyeon tries something, putting his hand on Jongin’s arm as soon as they are out the back door and steering him in the opposite direction of their home. He is bundled beyond recognition- nobody hinders their journey through the typical throngs of late afternoon. It is short too, Jongin silent and pliant next to him, until the concert hall of the city comes into view.

Last he had heard it, Bucheon had a decent orchestra, good enough to spur him into devoting himself to music.

He is let in easily- there will be no show today- the lone guard in the building gasping as he sees him, then ushering them inside. They get the pleasure of walking through all the lights as they turn on along the corridors.

More than anything, it is weird to have Jongin following him, not a question asked, as if he is not in command of his body anymore. But the moment he steps inside the dingy theatre he seems to be coming back to himself, head lifting to take in his surroundings. They walk through a few more rooms- the piano is not on the stage, of is not its default location. It is placed in a storage room along with a few other heavy-duty instruments.

Jongin sits on a stack of broken chairs as Baekhyeon settles on the bench.

“I do not know how else to make it better,” Baekhyeon says. And he realizes now, with the faint fragrance of moss dense in the air, that he is apprehensive, because this is so lame. How can a song ever patch up the broken walls of Jongin’s heart. It is too late to back off now, when Jongin looks at him with a kind of hopeful boredom. He will have to blindly believe on the countless confessions he has gotten about what his music can make people feel. And for the first time, he feels ashamed that this is the only thing he is good at- a piano and nothing else. “Please stop me if I’m failing,” Baekhyeon finishes, raising the lid.

Then Baekhyeon plays his little heart out. Maybe it is all the music he could not stop thinking about, all the tunes inspired by the things Jongin mouths, sentences in an unseen universe, giggles to unarticulated tumults. He loses himself in it, just as he should, home, ultimate comfort. The rush of letting it all spill, ardent rivulets over the keys, as if slipping between his fingers, saying whatever his mind cannot.

“You didn’t stop me,” Baekhyeon says, prematurely. His last two notes are still drifting, held into the air. His heart is pounding, loud and demanding. Just like after his first ever solo concert, a freebie populated by bored elderlies. At that time too, he had expected to be out of the bubble and to see half the hall gone, so he is surprised just the same to look to his side and for Jongin to still be there, wearing an expression that Baekhyeon cannot even begin to comprehend. It seems to still be switching, unsure, maddened.

“I see now, why you’re so famous,” Jongin croaks, and his voice too is different. A contrabass and feathers. His eyes have never been so rapt on Baekhyeon. He is looking at him like he sees just him, raw and pulsing. Perhaps this is a facet so ingrained within Baekhyeon that it is off to Jongin to not know this part of him. “You just made me breathe.”

In any other context, from anyone else, that would sound like gibberish, or sarcasm, even satire. But this is Jongin, and Jongin never disregards a thing.

“Why did she leave you?” Baekhyeon asks into the fallen silence, sober of his musical trance. The acoustics of this theatre is worse than he would like, but Jongin’s voice carries all the same, amplified by the hollow of his chest.

“She found someone better.”

Baekhyeon smiles. “I believe that is quite hard.”

Jongin smiles too. Not vacant, from Baekhyeon’s compliment. “She’s a resourceful one.” His gaze lowers, and he seems to be thinking, frantic. Perhaps he had wanted to reply with this for a while. “She said I was never there anymore. She said I was just seeking to experience her, so I’d have something to write about. She said that she believes that I never really loved her. I only liked picking apart the guts of this love. Mechanics. Not me dreaming of a lifetime with her, but me just having her by my side so I never stop dreaming.”

He laughs then, self-deprecating. “You know what I was thinking when she said all of this? That she was beautiful. She is beautiful. Even sadness looked good on her. Her eyes are a warm brown, did you notice? It was absolutely wonderful on the backdrop of her red rimmed eyes. And even when her tristesse was so obvious, wanting me to soothe it so much, all that went through my head was wow, so this is how a fight between lovers feels like. I was actually giddy because I got to feel this.” His grin turns maniac before it collapses altogether. That memory, then the consequence. “I would leave me too, if I was her. Someone better than me is very easy to find.”

Out of all the things Baekhyeon could reply with: to deny, to reason that there is no way that could be the case. But what does Baekhyeon know; he is just the new flatmate.

“For how long have you been telling this to yourself?” Baekhyeon settles on.

“Since that Thursday at 8:22.”

“It’s been three months since then.”

Jongin’s gaze snaps to him then, all wistful and heavy. “Only three? It feels like an era.”

“Jongin, you do not need to atone for anything. She was picking your love apart. Only yours looks like chicken scratch on the corners of receipts.”

Jongin has a while before he starts grinning. “You sound as if you’ve been reading my stuff.”

“It’s everywhere. I found a snippet of dialogue on toilet paper last night.”

Jongin’s eyes enlarge. “So that’s where I put it! Did you…did you use it?”

Well, it was on the last few squares of the last roll. “I…uhm. Yes.”

Jongin deflates.

“I’ll play it better?” he offers, already twisting towards the piano.

“Play it better, okay,” Jongin says, as if it is a legitimate payback.

And so Baekhyeon does.

They do not walk home together all the way. Halfway through, Jongin gets a text. He sends a few replies, then he is stopping Baekhyeon and telling him that he will go meet up with Sehun. His mood is definitely lighter, but not quite there.

Knocks on the wood of the door, small, unmeaning. Then Jongin stumbles in, shaking vigorously one foot until his shoe flies off. It hits the wall, leaving a patterned imprint. He is wearing different clothes, loose on his frame. Sehun’s, Baekhyeon guesses.

He is drunk; his neck is littered with bruises and his lips puffy, overripe cherry in colour.

“Oh, hi, hyeong,” Jongin says, eyes mostly closed, but his lips stretch- a bit, as if careful to their bruising, a hand up and waving at him. Baekhyeon is seated at the kitchen island, drinking some tea.

“There is still a gaping hole in your chest,” Baekhyeon says. Even through the tight rift of his lids, it is obvious. That look of vacancy. It never left.

Jongin bites his lip- it draws blood, that thinned the expanse is- and then strains the sides of his leather jacket over himself. “At least it is not raining through it anymore.”

Baekhyeon slides his cup over to him, still hot enough to warm him up and soothe the upcoming hangover. He downs it swiftly. “Thanks, hyeong.” Florid liquid dribbles down his chin.

Then he is padding away, a stumble here and there, a hiccup before he collapses into bed.

Baekhyeon sees the faint smudge of lipstick left on the rim of the cup- it is not the blood- greasy, pink, and bewitching, unlike the neutral balm Jongin is always applying. It is now that Baekhyeon feels a pang through his gut that is not from the cancer.

Baekhyeon idles inside the clinic a bit more, compressing the pad to the inside of his elbow. His veins are thin, the liquid in them abnormally watery. If he lessens the pressure, coral will be dripping down his arm and stain everywhere, like rosebuds on a vine.

He squeezes his forearm to his chest, impatient, his other arm fiddling with the paper bag in his grasp. Bucheon is awakening, and the place is filling up, boiling with hoarse voices. He could not be bothered with his inconspicuousness before he left- it was too early for that. But he is starting to gather looks, susurrations, and Baekhyeon has no tolerance whatsoever for this right now.

Thus, he storms out of the clinic with his jacket only dangling off one shoulder, stuffing the bag in the little truck of the motorcycle before and speeding down the streets. The wind pricks at him, assails him with spears. He would not be surprised to see the rivulets of blood crystalized with ice. For the first time, the ride feels too long- too many blocks, too many turns, too much coordination.

But then he is home, it is quiet, so quiet- Jongin does not even snore- and he takes his shirt off, and wipes as much of the spillage as possible, the silken fabric catching on the asperity of the dried claret. It has stopped flowing, at least.

He overturns the bag on the bed- ribbons of drug cocktails pouring out, seven per packet- the box of syringes, the box of opioids, the one with alcohol pads. Then, at the bottom, another heap of tests.

It has advanced. Of course.

He dumps everything into the drawer at the bottom of the dresser.

Trotting towards the bathroom, Baekhyeon pauses in front of Jongin’s room, glimpsing at the sleeping man. He is completely tangled in the sheets, one foot fallen to the floor and his mouth parted. The raise of his chest is short, placid.

All of a sudden, Baekhyeon yearns for this kind of peacefulness too, so he traipses back to his room, un-showered, and dives into a long, dreamless slumber.

They collide in the living room, both having woken up at the same time. Jongin is hungover and craving real food. Baekhyeon’s stomach feels like a vacuum too, scratching at him from the inside.

They stumble on each other in the kitchen trying to make a proper meal with antiquities rescued form Jongin’s freezer until they are all awake, alert on not burning anything.

It is four p.m. when they are done, sated and soft in a pile on the couch. Jongin is laughing at something on his phone, short cackles. Baekhyeon looks over, taking in the familiar fluffiness of his hair and the dent of his dimple. Something is off, changed, genuine to him, as if he is finally wearing the face that he should be.

Baekhyeon realizes that from now on, Jongin is healing.

He clings to Baekhyeon, finally takes him in, as more than a ghost roaming his apartment, a work buddy, someone making noises in the background.

But now, with Jongin finally letting himself seen by Baekhyeon, Baekhyeon feels the simmer of attraction bubbling up to the edge, as he greedily feeds on the proffered attention.

Then the mood at home turns sombre when the first draft of Jongin’s novel reaches the hands of his editor. This is the stage where he has to reread it all and cringe. “It is painful,” he says, “To read your own stuff, no matter how proud you might be of it.”

Be it afternoon, or night, it will be often that Jongin would disappear into his room for fifteen minutes; door never closed all the way, whist he pleasured himself. Sometimes louder, sometimes twice in a row, a short reprieve between, sometimes so quiet that there is only the incidental hum of rubbing.

The day he has to take one more pill than usual, Baekhyeon is antsy. He cannot stand knowing, nor can he ignore it, so he just goes and closes Jongin’s door, as quiet as possible, with his eyes closed tight, so he does not see a thing. Having imagery added to his explicit auditory memories will not help.

When he emerges from there, Baekhyeon is immersed in a game. He has not figured out what do to at it yet. Jongin approaches him confidently, not a smidgen of fluster in his gait. “It helps me concentrate,” he says, matter -of-factly. Laughter imbues his tone, and he looks expectantly at Baekhyeon.

He is waiting for Baekhyeon to laugh at him, to tease him, to treat it as an embarrassment. It dawns on him that this is indeed how he should react- mischief- at catching Jongin jerking off. Probably, this is what Jongin’s own response would be like.

This does not mean anything to him, not like it does to someone that has even the remote chance of being attracted to. Jongin does not see this as a trigger; he sees this as a trivial matter that Baekhyeon can be indifferent to.

Baekhyeon has never been rejected, because he has never asked of anyone to be his anything, but now, he thinks he knows what that feels like.

Jongdae is easy to entertain. His laughter is the easy kind, meant to just put some life, some quivers inside his ribcage. He is peckish for joy. Even the twinkles of his crescent eyes are sleepy, weighty.

Baekhyeon pours him a generous shot of soju, and tumbles on his plate the rest of the meat pieces from the grill. His cheeks are rosy, peaking with small pimples. His mouth keeps rambling, seemingly without Jongdae’s consent, as he cannot seem to pick between chewing or saying one more thing.

It is something about a girl, Baekhyeon detects between hiccupped giggles. The crushing stress of studying brought them together. He words it ambiguously, all avoided eyes and fidgeting, until Baekhyeon pours him another shot, his second and last one, and then Jongdae admits that he has been fucking this colleague of his in basically any public place that had a minimum of two walls.

Baekhyeon cracks up, choking on the piece of food he was chewing. He does not remember his own sooneung, but he did not consider it stressful enough to engage in behaviours of such risk. It must be harder now. “Is it good?” Baekhyeon asks, daringly picking a slice of hot pepper.

Jongdae’s chopsticks stop halfway to his mouth. He was totally expecting Baekhyeon to berate him for this.

“Uhm, yeah.” With his other hand, he unbuttons the first few buttons of the shirt of his uniform. The material looks scratchy. “It wasn’t at first, but now…” He blushes, his grin curling up.

Baekhyeon fights to keep a straight face as the fire of the pepper washes down his tongue. “Always wrap it up, okay?” he says. The grimace spreads over his entire face, and it is Jongdae who cackles now.

He would probably have the same reaction if he saw himself being all serious whilst his face maimed itself.

“Okay.” Jongdae nods frantically.

Baekhyeon indulges Jongdae as much as he can. Often, their meetings are short, for Jongdae is extremely tired, coming home from hagwon late. Baekhyeon makes sure that he eats, that he laughs a little, and sends him upstairs soon thereafter.

Jongin does not call for Sujeong anymore. Instead, he says “Hyeong” when and if he hears the front door. He even looks over, a spring of a simper, a blink, a nod.

The tone keeps changing, keeps warming- as though Jongin could not wait for him to be back, and Baekhyeon’s heart starts squeezing in his chest when he hears it, when he sees the whelming fervency gathered in the curls of his lips.

In these moments, Jongin’s presence pains him more than his malady.

Baekhyeon realizes that he has gained a friend in Jongin, and one more throb to the flutter of his heart.

Then more Jongin, Jongin smiling, Jongin being silly. Jongin singing when he cannot think of anything, lyrics, actual meaning instead of sound modulation. Semantics. And the random streaks of the beautiful worlds he paints with his words.

Jongin, responding with what his character would say instead, then rectify it to something better.

He still likes it at the café. He still reads there, he still tastes most of everything Jongin makes. Often, Baekhyeon will suggest to change Jongin from the tables to the kitchen, but then Minseok smirks, holding tight onto his spatula. “You just want to get rid of the competition. He’s almost catching up on you.”

Then after Jongin has fallen asleep, Baekhyeon will jump on his motorcycle and be so high, so reckless, more often than not looking at the sky instead of the road. It is nice that at least here it is less crowded, quieter, yet he already longs for the sky, the smell of fuel and no resistance whatsoever.

How’s Seoul, Baekhyeon asks Chanyeol. It comes to him whist he is nursing a cup of tea, one finger rounding the rim over and over, as if it is seeking to get burned. It is weird. He is waiting, for something, for his tea to brew. It is unsettling. There is no time for that anymore.

Why don’t you come find out? Is Chanyeol’s reply.

Baekhyeon looks to his left, in the dark of the foyer, his keys glinting there. There is nothing really stopping him. He just has to tell Junmyeon about it.

Come on a date with me, Baekhyeon sends when he is in Seoul, an hour later. It is approaching midnight, smog and light pollution heavy under the sky. It passes by him differently now that he is speeding on the motorcycle.

He goes to the doctor, a nice man with so many pens in his pocket. He is a gentle one, old enough to have a myriad of grandkids, and he treats Baekhyeon like one of them.

They do a few x-rays, to see how the tumours are faring.

Baekhyeon stares at it, black smudges and some grey and the reason he will soon be high on analgesics. “They’re growing so well,” he says. “Should I give them a name?” he continues emptily after a few stilted breaths.

Chanyeol stiffens, eyes intent on Baekhyeon’s caress of the picture, and the he hiccups, finally bursting into tears. He leaves the room.

“I do not kiss on the first date,” Baekhyeon says, hugging Chanyeol. He has found him outside, his back to the entrance. He holds tight. Perhaps, has refused to believe it even more so than Baekhyeon.

He meets his mother and his father for dinner. Baekbeom is there too, along with his wife.

Baekbeom is drunk and giggly as he pushes Baekhyeon to the side, leaning in all rosy cheeked. “I think Nana is a little pregnant,” his fingers come together, to place a little distance between them. Then he bursts into another fit of giggles on Baekhyeon’s shoulder.

“Prepare for the shit storm,” Baekhyeon replies, a little drunk himself. He likes alcohol- does not mean he cannot enjoy anything anymore just because it will accelerate his decline.

His whole family is in high spirits. When they ask how come he does not do any more concerts, how come that he does not appear on TV anymore, how come that he has left the city, he bullshits like he did for a lifetime, something about going back to the roots, finding a new style, renewing.

Then they ask about a girl, a daughter-in-law as charming as Nana, who blushes at the mention. It comes as second nature for Baekhyeon to lie, to say, “I do have a few candidates,” and fake bashfulness as he looks down. They laugh, nodding. It is good that he is famous now, otherwise they would be worried that he is thirty and still unmarried.

He is glad that at least he did this; he has gathered enough fame to afford them a place in Seoul, for their lives to take off, to be stable.
When he gets home, Baekhyeon scrubs and scrubs at this face until all the makeup is off. His skin catches a roseate tint, finally not ghostly pale with blue accents.

In bed, he texts Jongin. Stop thinking about stab wounds.

O.o how did u know

His fingers seize. It’s just you I know

Baekhyeon falls asleep before he sees the other’s reply.

He thinks of Jongin, that stability, a settled family of his own. How close he was to be espoused. But Jongin is heartbroken and straight, and Baekhyeon has nothing to lose, not anymore, but he will lose everything much faster if Jongin does not share the attraction.

Kyeongsu comes over, and rather than beginning with a greeting, he says, “You’re in love. With a new dick,” before his other foot even passes the doorstep. Of all, Kyeongsu’s bluntness is one of his favourite things.

Baekhyeon bursts out laughing, and the quiver of his abdominal muscles caresses the tumours. He does not register the pain.

“Maybe,” Baekhyeon replies.

Kyeongsu just knows, somehow. Perhaps it is because Baekhyeon is an amazing charmer with the ladies, and no man is just pure charm. A man who is after the ladies gets flustered too. Baekhyeon never has. He outright said it when they were at some sort of party a few years ago and he leaned in to whisper to Baekhyeon, “Don’t you think he’s hot?” looking in the direction of a sparsely dressed young man. Baekhyeon froze, effervescent fear bubbling in his chest, and then tried to play it off as a joke. “I’d like to have his guns, yes,” he said. Kyeongsu peered at him kindly, understanding. “You’d like to fuck him too, don’t you?” And this is how he knew.

To the people consuming his work, it does not matter as much what his fingers can do as much as the preference of his genitalia. To Kyeongsu, all that matters is that he gets his ego stroked whenever Baekhyeon happens to get a random boner and he is nearby.

His friend has already disappeared from sight, likely looking for liquor. He pretty much never drinks, but he likes to do it with Baekhyeon, even though he will not admit it. He finds a bottle of bourbon in the freezer, a gift Baekhyeon does not remember receiving, and tumbles some in two glasses. Baekhyeon’s eyes snap ever so briefly to the new stacks of papers from the doctor, before he is back to Kyeongsu’s hand on the glass. He has slim writs, but his palms are wide. It is a rapturous contrast.

He takes the glass.

They walk outside, on the terrace. Kyeongsu goes directly for the rail, staring unimpressed at the wide expanse of Seoul stretched before him. He air travels so much that such sight does not delight him at all.

Baekhyeon takes a generous gulp of his drink to fight the cold. He looks over, and Kyeongsu’s glass is in the same stage- half drunk already.

“So, who are you in love with?” asks Baekhyeon. He might not be at all. But he never speaks about things like these unless asked.

Kyeongsu huffs in an instant. So Baekhyeon was right to ask.

“A staff member,” he says. His lips are stretched wide, maiming his words. “She does my hair and ties my ties and laughs a lot.”

Baekhyeon notices it right off the bat. “Is she laughing at you?”

“I like to believe that is not the case,” he coughs, frowning.

“So she is.”

“I am aware I suck at flirting, thank you. But she is cute as fuck and I will not stop wooing her.” He puts so much determination in things he has no confidence in.

Baekhyeon often feels like Kyeongsu’s fame is a waste. If he were to fall in love, he would be spectacular at it. His public presence is too tame as well- he has been in the industry for so long and never had a scandal, never acted inappropriately. He would be ideal to marry and have kids and simply be there to achieve commercial fulfilment.

“So who’s the new boy?” Kyeongsu takes another sip.

“Kim Kai,” Baekhyeon says. Jongin’s alias. It sounds like the entire thrill he is trying to sell beyond his frontage of homey simplicity.

“Heard of him,” Kyeongsu hums, and he holds the note, involuntarily, a segue into a forgotten chorus. “I was overseas when that happened. Everyone thinks he’s some old man with unfulfilled murder fantasies.”

“It’s better than him using his face. Like so, he would only sell to teenagers that are definitely not ready for all that gore.”

“Is Kim Kai the one who offends you with his tiny aprons?”

He is a bit tipsy already and it is too easy to think of Jongin in his apron. “He is.”

Kyeongsu regards him with sudden drunkenness. He goes from nothing to complete inebriation in the blink of an eye. “Do not fall for straight boys, Baekhyeon. Not again.” He is using his hyeong tone. “You’re super ugly when you cry.”

“He would think I’m beautiful,” Baekhyeon replies instantly. Censoring his thoughts is out of the question in Kyeongsu’s presence.

The way Kyeongsu blinks, gaze falling to the freezing Seoul under, then the silent click of his tongue inside his mouth. A drunk Kyeongsu is also a weirdly perceptive Kyeongsu. “So it’s too late. You’re on your knees for him.”

“It’s not. Just late. Not too late. I’m trying here,” then he downs the glass. He wants to blur all of Kyeongsu’s inquires.

“How are his legs?”

“Amazing.”

Kyeongsu winces. “You’re a leg man.”

“I absolutely am.” Baekhyeon winces too.

“I will have my shoulder ready for you then,” he pats it, too hard. He cannot even control his limbs anymore. “I’ve been working out though. Might not be too comfortable.”

“I noticed. Buff Soo is totally a thing on the internet. I saw some descriptions of how girls salivate over you that would outdo Jongin.”

“I hate working out,” Kyeongsu says, a plump pout on his face. Devastation smears all over his features. Baekhyeon can do nothing but burst into laughter.

Later, much later, when they are loose and have ordered some food, boxes all over Baekhyeon’s living room, he takes Kyeongsu to the piano, makes him sit, and makes him play. Baekhyeon has an amazing voice, but he does not really like singing, whilst Kyeongsu is good at piano, but does not really like it either. They could switch careers, if it was not for this.

But now Kyeongsu is giggling away, his cheeks red as he continues giggling as he plays. Baekhyeon sings next to him, like those tunes in radio commercials, whilst Kyeongsu is keying in anime theme songs.

At the end, they lift and bow, pretending they are receiving a standing ovation.

They fall asleep in a heap of limbs. Kyeongsu is pantless, as always, and Baekhyeon is shirtless because his chest is hot from the mixture of alcohol and pulsing disease. It is again a sleepover after the exam session is over and they are still mumbling music theory terms in their sleep.

Only now there is not sleep until noon. “I have a recording in the morning,” Kyeongsu groans, gruff and petulant. And before anything else, Baekhyeon thinks this man deserves all the love he could possibly get.

this story is continued

part iii