Work Text:
Howon doesn't quite like the building Myungsoo works in; it's big and grey and glassy, smack dab in the middle of bustling downtown Seoul. It's intimidating. He's probably the only person who sees it this way though, because everyone else sees it as a gold mine, bright and glamorous like the embossed 'Seoul Publications' by its entrance in flourishing letters of molten amber. It really isn't an exaggeration to say that it was the biggest publishing company in all of South Korea.
During the summer and autumn intakes of new interns, sprightly boys and girls, eyes glinting with an eagerness that was almost feverish would be lining up around the corner with coffee to keep them awake for the long wait, and a sandwich or two to munch away their nerves. Howon's never been through that and he never wants to, but he's seen the chaos. They'd take anything, anything, from mailman to assistant, but out of the hundreds who try their luck desperately, very few, if any at all, make it to editorial internship. Even fewer make the cut to become full-fledged editors for Seoul Publications, renowned for its selective choices not only of writers, but also of proofreaders.
Which really, really makes Howon feel that by now, his third year of writing, he should feel somewhat grateful that he's managed to snag the publishing house's top editor, and quite possibly the best in all of Seoul, Kim Myungsoo.
It's hard though, Howon thinks, as he makes his way through the line of now-impatient intern hopefuls as politely as he can and pushes open the grand glass doors with his shoulders. It's hard to even see Myungsoo as an editor at all if this 'star among stars' in the publishing world (or so the newspapers and analysts and insiders insist) is a sour young man only slightly younger than him that should never, ever be woken up in the morning at seven for an editorial meeting lest you want him firing biting remarks at you for the rest of the day. It also doesn't help much that Myungsoo was his high school classmate who slept through every class, made a mess of his laundry basket just for fun when he slept over, and had the weirdest quirks for the weirdest things.
When the elevator doors part, Howon swiftly brushes past the reception and crosses from the marbled interior of the lobby to the carpeted offices. He's ducked to avoid three flailing, near-hysterical editors before he reaches Myungsoo's desk, parked nearest to the head editor's office with a gorgeous view of the busy streets of Apgujeong through the glass-panelled walls. "Here, your chai latte; less sugar, no cream," he says, plopping down into a vacant chair.
Myungsoo takes it gratefully and leans back in his seat, massaging his temples. "I don't say this on any normal day, but you're a saint," he mutters low after a long, scalding sip. Myungsoo's always been a man of few words and never talks where he believes unnecessary, but today Howon nods attentively and downs his own latte while listening to Myungsoo's account of an 'unreasonable ass-holey writer' he's planning to drop because of his refusal to yield to any of his suggestions as of late. "Screw his track record. I'm willing to bet you next week's coffee supply that he won't even make the top 20 for next month's sales statistics," Myungsoo finishes with a grumble.
Howon doesn't take Myungsoo on that bet, because Myungsoo is never wrong when it comes to sales, and Myungsoo loves his coffee.
Instead, he casts glances around to make sure no one is watching them (hardly anyone ever is, since everybody seems too engrossed in their own business around here), and hands him a thick stack of paper: a typed manuscript. Myungsoo's eyebrows lift, and the corners of his lips turn upwards in a small grin. "Your next piece?" he asks, but it's a rhetorical question, because that's a given. He says no more, only tucks the manuscript neatly into a file on his desk.
Howon suddenly remembers the reason why he's decided to drop by Myungsoo's office in the first place. "So how goes sales? The stats for last month are supposed to be out today, right?", a question to which Myungsoo only nods. His smile seemed to widen slightly as he proudly fishes out a piece of paper and hands it over to Howon. "It was circulated through Editorial this morning."
Howon's eyes skim over it anxiously; he sees familiar names and intriguing titles, from 10 all the way to 3. Finally, his gaze lands on first and second places, and a smile that matches Myungsoo's breaks out on his face.
1st: Lee H. – The Lighthouse
2nd: J – Through the Eyes of A Dragontamer
◇
"Again? No way in hell—" Woohyun tosses the piece of paper aside and lands face-first in an ungraceful flop onto Dongwoo's bed. "Come on; it's been two months and he's still right there? What kind of magic does his editor work?" Woohyun's voice comes out muffled amidst the soft (and now rather flattened) pillows.
Dongwoo's laugh reaches him over the sizzle of the frying pan in the kitchen. "Come on, even you have to face it, it was a good book! I mean, I couldn't put it down till I finished it and don't lie that you could either." As an afterthought, he adds, rather distractedly, "Oh wait, did you want eggs on your toast because I made enough for both of us…?" Woohyun only lets out a disgruntled groan in reply, and Dongwoo takes it that yes, he'd be fine with eggs.
Not five minutes later, Woohyun pads grumpily and resignedly into the kitchen and sits on the countertop as he watches the eggs poach. "Okay, yes, it's a good book, but the last time you were on top of sales was what, two books ago? Then—I don't know, they stepped up their game! They've been in first place for weeks!"
"I've been second place for weeks!" Dongwoo says defensively. "Come on, isn't second place among all the hundreds of writers in South Korea good? It could be a lot worse and no one would be reading my work." He hands a plate of steaming buttered toast with eggs over to Woohyun and hops up to sit next to him. "Besides," he adds with a mouthful of bread and cocoa, "you know I've never been one to care about sales and… well, business-y things." Dongwoo makes as suitable a hand gesture as he can for good measure.
Woohyun glances him up and down, then lets out a reluctant sigh. "Yeah, you've never. I just… I don't know, I just don't want your hard work to go to waste or anything. I know you put a lot of heart into the pieces you write," he admits, his eyes downcast.
Dongwoo smiles then, and reaches out to ruffle Woohyun's hair. He still remembers doing this to him all those years ago, when he'd first come to fast-paced, glittering Seoul, with nothing but a small backpack and hopes as high as the sky. Even today, he honestly still isn't sure what he was expecting leaving his hometown behind for a completely new city, fresh out of high school. He'd considered a few things he was good at in school: dance, theatre, maybe? Seoul was a city that never slept, and he spent countless nights just walking around and absorbing as much as he could.
After two weeks of aimlessly walking Seoul, he'd given his mother a call. He could hear the familiar tinkling of pans and the soft murmur of the crowd; a sense of nostalgia overwhelmed him out of nowhere, and he wanted nothing more but to be home in the warmth of his family restaurant. Before Dongwoo had much chance to let homesickness get the better of him, his mother reminded him that she'd always told him his imagination would take him further than any fancy airplane can. Hey, why not write?
He completed his first novel in a coffeehouse two blocks away from his rented apartment, and he likes to believe that it was fate that the place was crowded that very day. It was pouring in downtown Seoul, and rather dishevelled-looking white collar workers were slowly trickling in for a warm cuppa. Just as Dongwoo finished the last chapter and was about to start proofreading all the 'fragments' (thanks, Microsoft Word, thanks), a boy probably no older than he was, face half-hidden behind a voluminous scarf and books threatening to fall out of his sling bag asked if he could take the vacant seat beside him.
He turned out to be a rather inquisitive lit graduate who'd been to hell and back over the past few weeks submitting his resume to any publishing company who'd give him the time of day (and maybe those who didn't, as well). Nam Woohyun, he'd introduced himself, a wide grin lighting up his face as they shake hands. He asked to see what Dongwoo had been so busy typing up. Hey, this is really, really good, he said, two pages into the entire manuscript. Dongwoo had only laughed then, and reached out to ruffle his damp hair. The rest, as they say, was history. They re-visited the offices, company after company, as a writer-editor team, and it was many tiring days later that they were finally picked up.
Dongwoo agreed to make him breakfast and do the laundry for them both; Woohyun offered him a place to stay, a small loft he'd managed to rent. Dongwoo became a best-selling author with his first novel, that very same one; Woohyun became a permanent, valuable editor. They became fast and best friends.
It was, in every sense of the word, a win-win situation.
"You know it's never a waste. I write 'cause I like it. Neither of us expected to hit it big with what I wrote in that café anyway," he says, swallowing the last of his toast. "He does have a pretty high-profile editor." Woohyun abruptly launches into a rather jealous-sounding fit about how just because Kim Myungsoo was from Seoul Publications doesn't ultimately make him a god amongst editors, but clamps his mouth shut when Dongwoo reminds him that he did briefly study about Myungsoo in college.
Dongwoo takes both their plates to the sink, but his mind is far from the amount of soap he's using. "I wonder how he looks like," he says to no one in particular, deep in thought. "I mean, Lee H.," he clarifies, when Woohyun asks who he's talking about. "I mean, he never attends book signings, and I don't think he's attended any award ceremonies. His biography doesn't even say how old he is, man! He's like some faceless guy who writes kick-ass books and he could be, like, 80."
Woohyun rolls his eyes. "You're a faceless guy who writes kick-ass books too, y'know. You haven't attended anything like that either; the only difference is that people know you're 22 because you say so in your too-long biography." Admittedly, Woohyun's also had his curious days, pondering what kind of person Lee H. was, but he supposes it adds to the mystery of it all, if both of Korea's bestselling authors today remain behind their anonymity. It makes the fans guess more; the gossip boards are really quite interesting, if the few Saturdays Woohyun's spent looking at them are anything to go by.
◇
On Saturday evening, when Howon's sprawled out on his futon flipping idly through the TV channels, his phone buzzes loudly in his furniture-deprived apartment: a message from Myungsoo.
You'll probably be really interested in next month's sales too. Now open the door.
Howon hurries over to the door and unlocks it to an impeccably-dressed Myungsoo, who hands him his manuscript from earlier in the week. Howon flips quickly through it; there are red marks in Myungsoo's flourishing handwriting – corrections, suggestions, additions – and on the back, written confidently in bright, bold letters, Bestseller. Howon laughs then, this was often Myungsoo's way of encouraging him and showing his approval, behind all the sarcasm. He places the manuscript on the side-table by the door and turns Myungsoo around. "Come on, I'll treat you to dinner for all your hard work."
◇
They end up at one of their most-frequented joints, a cozy Italian restaurant nearby. Over generous portions of pasta, they talk about their week, and it's times like these that Howon likes it best that he doesn't work in an office. He much prefers working from home, although he's always felt a little guilty that Myungsoo has to face enough offices for the both of them.
"Oh yeah, one last thing I wanted to tell you about," Myungsoo says, after he's done giving his comments about the plot of Howon's latest novel, "There's going to be a company dinner next Tuesday, and I highly recommend you attend. You don't have to reveal yourself or anything; just go as a friend. Each staff member is allowed to bring one person with them."
"So I'm kind of like your date?" Howon asks jokingly, and laughs when Myungsoo shoots him a pointed glare.
"You secretly wish you were, don't you," Myungsoo says, rolling his eyes, but there's amusement on his features. "It's not just Seoul Publications that's going to be there; there are lots of big industry players too. They'll want to hear all about you, no doubt. I might get to bargain about initial printing too. Oh, and you can check out the competition," he reasons, sipping his juice politely.
Howon doesn't quite like official gatherings, because tuxedos always made his neck particularly uncomfortable, and he's had rather uneasy experiences with the multitude of half-drunk women in attendance. There was once one of them managed to drag him as far as the elevator brandishing her room key, but Myungsoo had fortunately gotten there in time. He makes a face, but then says in a quieter voice, "I kind of wish J would be there. We've always wanted to know what he looks like."
At this, Myungsoo raises an eyebrow. "To be honest, until the day you reveal yourself and after, I think it's unlikely he's suddenly going to do that either."
"You hate these parties."
"It's part of the job, though."
"You're just trying to get me to accompany you through another night in hell, aren't you," Howon says, but it comes out as a statement, more than a question.
Myungsoo leans back in his seat with a satisfied smile on his face. "This, my friend, is why we've been friends for so many years."
◇
Dongwoo has to stifle his laughter as he catches Woohyun staring again, his pizza growing limp with melting cheese. "Not going to get his autograph?" he teases, his gaze following Woohyun's to land on a handsome-looking young man and his friend, both chattering quietly over huge plates of spaghetti. One of them was none other than Kim Myungsoo, an object of both Woohyun's admiration and envy. "Leave him alone," Dongwoo says, laughing again, and this time he has to stop eating because he might spit it all out again.
"I'm not sure if I should go over there and wring his secrets out of him or punch him in the face," Woohyun sighs resignedly and returns to his food. He catches Dongwoo trying hard not to laugh, and makes a futile attempt at flinging a slice of pepperoni at him.
"If you don't do it now, you could try doing it at the Seoul Publications dinner. Look for the man with a hundred men and a thousand women at his heels."
"No."
"Since I'm going, I might as well pretend I'm a fan and get you his autograph, how about that?"
Dongwoo promptly gets a tomato-covered slice of capsicum on his face.
◇
"I suppose jeans and a simple shirt wouldn't do, huh," Howon says, almost in awe as they walk past the sparkling glass doors of one of Seoul's finest hotels. The fountain in the lobby would probably fill half his loft, and even if he sold his entire unit, he rather doubted it would cover the cost of the marble flooring, so polished that he could see their reflection in it as they stride towards the elevators.
With a ding, the doors slide open on the 17th floor to quite possibly the most refined ballroom Howon has ever seen. (Granted, he hasn't seen that many, but still.) Myungsoo leads him through the crowd to the buffet area, but catches sight of someone and hurriedly whispers something that he didn't catch in his ear before leaving his side. Howon sighs; this was how they spent all their 'dinners'. Howon would enjoy the air-conditioning and the scented ballroom while Myungsoo would be out there somewhere, socialising and bargaining. He does pretend to be an insider sometimes, and would quietly get feedback and reviews of his work from the guests he talks to. At least he'd get the truth out of them, not some sugarcoated response just because somebody knew he was the author and would rather not get on his bad side.
Howon's suddenly glad he'd eaten his dinner before coming here; he really isn't sure how he'd be able to stomach so much rich food otherwise. The A to Z of world cuisine is laid out on a long table, and waiters in crisp white uniforms are going around balancing trays laden with glasses of champagne. Howon takes one, if only just to pretend that he's actually doing something other than standing around waiting for an acceptable time to leave.
Howon notices another man standing by the food table, scratching uncomfortably where the collar of his shirt met his skin. He looks around, as if to make sure no one was there, and sneaks a roll of sushi into his mouth, chewing contentedly. Their gazes meet, and his eyes crinkle into crescents, as if saying, You saw that, didn't you? Howon strides over to him in three easy steps; for some reason, he comes up tongue-tied, and intelligently asks, "You hungry?"
The man before him snorts and nods somewhat sheepishly. "Yeah. I kind of fell asleep until I had to get ready and didn't get anything on the way out."
It's Howon's turn to snort, as he says, "No one's going to care, y'know, you can eat all the food you want. I mean, it's here for people to eat." Then, he belatedly realises this stranger might be knew to gatherings like this and not know that. "Are you new?" he asks, as if to make amends.
"Nope, I'm not! But this is probably the most high-class gathering I've been to among all the others," he says, holding out his hand. "I'm Jang Dongwoo. You?"
Howon takes his proffered hand; strong, sturdy, warm. "Lee Howon. What do you do? Are you an analyst?"
"I wouldn't be able to 'analyse'," Dongwoo uses air quotes, "even if you had everything done for me and all I had to do was make sense of it. I... I'm here with a friend. He's an editor, and he asked me to come with him, that's all."
"Same here. Big dinners like this are kind of intimidating. I'm here with a friend of mine too," he lies easily, after dozens of times at practice. He's always felt guilty not telling everyone who he really was, but maybe it's for the better.
◇
It isn't long before they leave the buffet table and sidestep a few girls to a quieter corner of the room, where plush velvet sofas have been laid out in circular formations for group talks. Howon discovers that he and Dongwoo have a lot more in common than two men who happen to be out of place at a humongous company dinner with editor friends; his self-assigned task to find out what the guests thought of his newest book is long forgotten.
Dongwoo loves literature and writing, yes, but his love for dance trumps all. They spend what seems like forever recalling their high school days, where both of them actively pursued dance and theatre. It's awful to think that Dongwoo is the first other friend Howon has made since coming to Seoul from Busan, other than Myungsoo, but he's not really sure if that counts since he and Myungsoo were high school classmates back then. (There's Sungyeol whom he met on student exchange once, but that doesn't count either.) He almost misses getting to know someone new.
Just as Dongwoo launches into his account of his first school play, his phone rings. He flips it open to a text from Woohyun.
I'm at the lobby already. Let's ciao I'm so tired!
Dongwoo pockets his phone and smiles apologetically at Howon. "My friend's done here and he's going home. We're flatmates so I kind of have to go with him," he ends awkwardly, unsure of how to part.
Howon finds an easy smile creeping up onto his features, even though he feels a tinge of sadness that the night was coming to a close. He's enjoyed this night a lot more than he expected to, and makes a mental note to thank Myungsoo later. "That's fine! It was great meeting you here; I guess you find a friend in the least expected of places," he says, giving Dongwoo a small wave.
Dongwoo grins back at him and turns to leave, but then spins around again. "Um… Can we meet again? I think we each have a lot more stories to tell," he says, offering his phone to Howon, who takes it and quickly punches in his number.
"Sure. Just text me the time and place; I'll be there if I can make it," he says genuinely.
Dongwoo smiles cheekily just then, and holds out his hand in the air. "Friends?"
"Friends," Howon affirms, giving him a high-five and then sending him on his way.
◇
Howon and Dongwoo meet often at a newly-opened book café that served excellent coffee. The barista and owner turned out to be an old friend of Dongwoo's, a rather particular man who was a stickler for details, Sunggyu. But he was a pleasant enough person; he made easy conversation and offered them both food on the house sometimes. Not to mention that the interior design and selection of books more than warranted their frequenting the joint. (Once or twice, Sunggyu had berated them for their loud friendly banter, but that was beside the point, especially sometimes if Woohyun tagged along.)
They normally meet on late Sunday mornings, although now, they've taken to meeting on Wednesdays too. Howon often compares Dongwoo to a beacon of light. He's always smiling, always happy, always cracking a joke here and there, making everyone feel comfortable, feel loved. Howon isn't sure if people like that still existed. He hasn't ever found someone he could be so completely open with, not even Myungsoo, and it elates him as much as it scares him.
It's on their seventh Sunday together, reviewing a classic literary piece that Sunggyu's kept high on a bookcase because 'no one other than you two would read it', when Howon suggests they do something different the next time they meet.
"Are you still up for meeting on Wednesday?" he asks, as Dongwoo wars with a particularly hard piece of pie. When Dongwoo nods, he extends an invitation he's never extended to anyone else, not even Myungsoo (but it's not like Myungsoo would do anything there anyway). "I go to this dance studio near my place sometimes. Do you… y'know, maybe we could dance there together? Think some routine up for two?" Howon asks, and he finds himself desperately hoping Dongwoo would agree.
Dongwoo gives him his signature huge grin. "Of course! I haven't danced in a while, though, I'm pent up most of my days," he laughs. "I might be a little rusty."
Somehow, Howon has a feeling that Dongwoo's idea of 'rusty' would be at par with his optimum.
◇
Howon is proven right on Wednesday.
It's a windy morning when they meet up at a sidewalk corner, and both are only too relieved to remove their jackets when they step into the warm interior of the studio. Howon tells Dongwoo that it's unused except for Saturdays and Sundays, when hip-hop dancers and ballerinas take turns to use it for their classes. They get a pack of biscuits and a soda each from the dispensing machine on the ground floor before Howon leads the way to the room he always uses upstairs.
It's a rustic building; the walls have been left bare and undecorated, red brick on all sides except for one glass-panelled wall overlooking the streets in this quieter part of town, dotted with stores for the likes of audiophiles, gardeners and antique enthusiasts, and another covered entirely in a mirror.
Dongwoo unloads his bag in a corner of the room and peers into the LCD display of the radio in the room, looking through the pre-programmed tracks. Howon's about to say that he brought a few CDs along if Dongwoo didn't like the ones in there, but then Dongwoo jumps up excitedly and exclaims, "This is my jam! Can we dance to this?" He presses the play button and a loud alt hip-hop song echoes in the room. Howon is only too happy to oblige, but he moves into position and doesn't tell Dongwoo that that was his favourite song in the playlist too.
◇
An exhausting three hours or so later, they stop. They dance to everything on the radio, and one or two of Howon's CDs. Howon hasn't felt this liberated in ages; all he normally does is sit at home, write, and sometimes run errands for Myungsoo. Sure, he's danced on his own, but it's an entirely different thing if someone else is dancing with you.
Dongwoo collapses onto the floor in a laughing, sweating, panting heap. "I thought you said you were rusty," Howon manages to say, in between puffs of heavy breaths.
"I am!" Dongwoo insists, a hand on his chest as if willing it to go a little slower. "I can't move my body like I used to. I'm getting old," he chuckles.
Howon wants to call him a big fat (pretty little?) liar. For a good part of the time they spent dancing, Howon found himself staring at Dongwoo more than observing his own movements. The fluidity with which his body moved, the effortlessness with which he danced, the sheer passion he felt; all of it came together so flawlessly that Howon couldn't help but be fixated on him when he danced. His eyes would be sparkling with mirth, his lips pulled back over perfectly white teeth, his whole body shaking with passion. Dongwoo didn't treat dance as an art; it was something he loved, an extension of himself, almost, the thing he used to best express himself. Howon wants to say all that and so much more, but stops short because the right words escaped him.
"I haven't danced like that in what, two years? I think I'll be all achy tomorrow and then I'll be knocking on your door and you'll be responsible for taking me to the hospital," Dongwoo jokes, angling his face to look at Howon, who's sitting next to him and downing an entire bottle of water at a go.
Howon rolls his eyes. "Okay, princess," he teases, crunching up the plastic bottle and tossing it into a wooden trashcan. He misses, but only because Dongwoo tackles him with a loud and playful 'hey!'. They fall into a tumbling heap, rolling about as Dongwoo struggles to get Howon's cap. He remembers the days the fifth grade boys would play a ridiculous game, really, to collect each other's caps and whomever manages to get everybody else's would win. Howon, needless to say, lithe even as a child, won the competition and earned himself a bag of sweets.
He doesn't realise they've stopped rolling until Dongwoo chuckles. "What're you smiling about?" It somehow snaps them both back to reality. Dongwoo is on top of him, propped up by his hands on the floor on either side of Howon's head, breathing still ragged and heavy, and he's close. Much too close, they seem to mutually decide, as Dongwoo retreats and Howon sits upright.
"I'm sorry," Dongwoo says quietly, head lowered, but his gaze never leaves Howon's, and he realises that their proximity still has yet to change much.
"Why?" is all he asks, searching Dongwoo's eyes for an answer. None comes to him, and none is voiced. Why are you sorry? he wants to ask. Was I a mistake? Was meeting me a mistake? Was this all a mistake? Howon comes to the realisation that he's not sure what he wants the answers to be, and what they would imply should he ever get them. So he lets it slide, and never asks the questions.
Because the right words have always escaped him.
◇
They still meet on Saturday, and then Wednesday, Saturday, Wednesday, Saturday, Wednesday. Everything stays the same, and yet, everything is different. Howon responds to even the slightest of Dongwoo's touches now, flinching a little but then hurriedly wishing he hadn't, that he'd leaned into the contact instead. Dongwoo watches his words, apologising over anything that brings a wave of silence over them, when he used to be so confident with the things he says.
Howon isn't even sure what went wrong, and it's driving him insane. He wants to make amends, but he never manages to find a proper way to phrase his words; it's infuriating because he's a novelist, for crying out loud, and he can't seem to put in spoken words what he can easily imagine typed neatly in black on a fresh sheet of manuscript paper.
Dongwoo is the first to break the routine.
"Hey," he nudges Howon softly one Saturday, and it's so light and somewhat timid that even Howon's reflexes seem to not have heart to pull away. "Do you want to come by my place tomorrow? For dinner?" He smiles slightly, the familiar warm twinkle in his eye almost instantly beginning to melt the thin wall of ice that seemed to have been built between them over the past few weeks.
Howon could only smile, as if a huge burden has been lifted off his shoulders. The air seemed, in that moment lighter and easier to inhale. "I'd love to."
◇
Howon arrives at Dongwoo's apartment sharp at six in the evening. It's a small unit, but it's cosy, warm and comfortable; it feels inhabited, at least, much unlike Howon's own loft, deprived of furniture and sparkling clean. Dongwoo is in the middle of cooking when he arrives, and tells him that they'll both be having kimchi fried rice for dinner, because Woohyun had conveniently forgot to get the groceries on the way home from work the day before. Howon doesn't mind the slightest, and is actually curious how Dongwoo's homemade fare would taste like.
He wanders around the apartment for a while, observing the picture frames and knick-knacks on the dresser in a corner of the living room. There are pictures of both Woohyun and Dongwoo, more recent ones, but then there are also rather faded pictures of Dongwoo's childhood days, age as if accentuated by the old wooden frames holding them. There's a picture of him high on a swing set, laughing like there was no tomorrow, as if the sky was the limit. There's a sharp pang in his heart, and he somehow wishes that he could make Dongwoo laugh like that as well—
"Here you go," Dongwoo says brightly, handing him a sizeable plate of rice. Howon makes for the dining table, but Dongwoo only laughs and tugs him by the sleeve. "No, not here. When Woohyun's not around, I like having dinner outside!"
He pulls Howon out past the sliding doors to a small balcony. Seoul lay unaware tens of stories below them, the cars reduced to nothing more than twinkling dots of gold and red. Dongwoo stays in a quieter part of Myeongdong, but the muffled sounds of the city can still be heard, the occasional tall billboard and high-rise here and there. The wind tangles his hair, just cool enough in this early autumn. "This is a really nice place to eat dinner," he sighs, almost wistfully, as he slides into the chair next to Dongwoo's.
Dongwoo nods, and then launches into a story about how Woohyun sometimes harvests snow water just to experiment during winter. Howon laughs along, because he misses this, misses how easy it was to smile when Dongwoo tells him something, anything, really, from a story about his teenage years to how he saved a cat in the subway. Being with Dongwoo made him smile, he realises, and abruptly his face begins to grow hot. He's grateful it's starting to get dark.
Howon notices a tiny bookcase pressed against the wall, and looks through the titles. They're all interesting books, some he's read and some he hasn't. He stops when he reaches the third shelf, because it's completely filled with books that he'd written. The Lighthouse was sitting pretty on top of the rest, his newest work. He'd almost completely forgotten the guise under which they met, that he was no more than a 'friend' who happened to be at the dinner.
Slowly, he picks the book up and turns around to face Dongwoo. Tell him, tell him! "So you read Lee H.'s work?" he asks, and he mentally hits himself for it.
Dongwoo's face seemed to light up at that moment, and he looked even more jovial than he usually did, if that was even possible. "Yes! I'm a huge fan of his books. He's always on the bestsellers' list, and his work is always really good! Woohyun always says he and his editor make a star team," he laughs. "I feel like I'm somewhere else when I read his books, and they're great."
It takes all of Howon's will not to stand gaping at Dongwoo's praise; he's heard all those words and so many others about his writing, but none have ever been as genuine as his. He chooses instead to talk about one of his favourite authors, because no way in hell Myungsoo would ever let him say this at home. "Do you read J's work? I'm sure you've seen Through the Eyes of A Dragontamer everywhere lately," he says.
There it is again, Howon sighs inwardly, as Dongwoo's entire face lights up in a smile straight from the heart. "I've read his books. Do you like them?"
"I love them. There are a lot of fantasy writers in the market these days, but he's kind of different. I don't know what it is, but it's not just magic and dragons in his books. There's a little more that makes you want to read it," Howon shrugs. (He misses Dongwoo's self-knowing smile when he turns around to put the book back in its place.)
◇
After the dishes are done, they laze around in the living room; Howon flipping through the channels on TV, Dongwoo working on a compilation of short stories he told Woohyun he'd be writing in time for Christmas. There's nothing on telly but news and horribly scripted reality shows, so Howon switches it off and instead scoots over to Dongwoo and his notebook. "What are you writing?" he asks, curiously.
"Just a few, um, short stories? Woohyun has a friend who might be interested in… compiling these," Dongwoo says and his voice is smaller than usual, but Howon doesn't question it.
"You write? Let me see," he says, pulling the notebook onto his lap. He narrates the words in his head, tastes them on his mind's tongue. Dongwoo's choice of words was selective and purposeful, yet managed to maintain a light feeling, and was terribly familiar to Howon. "It's like I've read your writing before; it's so weird," he says, and when he hands the notebook back to Dongwoo, their fingers brush lightly against each other's. He realises Dongwoo has incredibly slender fingers.
Their eyes meet. Dongwoo has incredibly slender eyelashes.
Their lips meet. Dongwoo has incredibly plush lips.
Howon realises a second too late that he's thinking exactly like the teenagers he writes about in his romance novels; his fingers grasp Dongwoo's wrist lightly and pull him close, wanting more than anything for the moment to last. But of course, moments don't last, and the kiss breaks. When Howon reaches for Dongwoo's lips again, Dongwoo pulls away slightly, but then gives in, testing the waters between the two of them. The kiss starts slow, but then quickly picks up speed, until they're both left breathless, faces framed by the dim lights of the apartment.
"I-I didn't know you… you were—" Dongwoo isn't sure how to continue, but Howon gets the message and kisses him again, softer this time, in answer. "I never knew. I was always just waiting for the right one to come around," he whispers.
It's late into the night before Howon leaves, reluctantly, but not before Dongwoo pulls him back down onto the couch again, and presses his lips against his earlobe.
"I love you."
◇
Four months pass like a blur, and Howon feels as if he remembers everything and nothing at the same time. J manages to trump Lee H. during the Christmas onslaught of releases, and Myungsoo tries desperately to even the numbers up. Winter is falling hard and fast on Seoul, the once-colourful, lighted city now a glimmering bed of white. His nights are now divided – some at home, writing his next book; some at Dongwoo's place, where they do nothing but lie next to each other in comfortable silence, their fingers intertwined. Sometimes, Dongwoo falls asleep with his lips against the crook of Howon's neck, and Howon wouldn't rather be anywhere else.
I love you, I love you, I love you, Dongwoo says, a hundred? a thousand? a million times? When they're sitting next to each other in the subway, when they're sprawled out on the living room floor, when they're pressed up against the harsh red brick of the dance studio.
Howon treasures each and every single one, keeps them locked away in a special partition of his memory (because a lot of the time, he finds out that's really all he can do).
◇
"What are you thinking about?" Howon murmurs in the darkness, Dongwoo curled up next to him, fingers holding onto the fabric of his shirt. "You're not asleep."
"You," Dongwoo says simply, almost matter-of-factly, as if the answer should've been clear. "I'm always thinking about you. A lot more than I should." Howon feels the feathery-light touch of Dongwoo's lips against his collarbone, and shudders involuntarily in the darkness.
Howon falls silent then, as he does all the time, and he hates it. He hates it how he never finds anything to say back to Dongwoo, anything at all that he feels even the slightest semblance of the love he's received. He hates it that words always fail him, when it comes to this.
"Do you love me?" Dongwoo asks, out of the blue, and his voice is so small, so afraid of the answer that it breaks Howon's heart, and he wants to do is reach out to caress his face, say yes yes yes, but instead, he says, "Yeah. Why?"
"Why is it that you've never said you loved me?"
Dongwoo doesn't get his answer, not even as they sleep restlessly through the silent night, and not even when he leaves in the morning.
◇
It is two excruciatingly painful weeks later that Howon decides he's fucked up really badly, and one way or another, he has to fix it. Howon longs to be able to hold Dongwoo again, sing him to sleep, watch the slow rise and fall of his chest as his breathing evens out. They haven't done anything together since the night in question, save meeting at the café every designated day and parting ways when evening fell, but that is where the similarities end.
They haven't fooled anybody by not talking about things; Myungsoo's asked Howon if he was okay lately, and Woohyun had put forth a suggestion that Dongwoo return to his hometown for a while. Even Sunggyu seems to be keeping an extra-watchful eye on the both of them.
Howon finally musters the courage to call Woohyun to ask him if he could meet Dongwoo alone at his apartment that night, and endures a half-hour-long admonishing that he knows he deserves. In the end, though, Woohyun agrees, and hangs up after saying, "Make sure you play this right, Howon. Fix what you've broken. He still loves you, a lot."
It is with that hope that Howon knocks on the door of the apartment, and Dongwoo opens it with a cup of instant noodles in hand. "Hey, I thought you said you went—" He stops short when he sees Howon, and they stand for many moments of awkward silence, their gazes not meeting each other's, before Dongwoo steps aside to let Howon in past the threshold.
Dongwoo seems to consider Howon for a moment, taking him in, before pulling on his sleeve and leading him out to the balcony, now a much-too-familiar place. They often spent evenings here, before it began to get too cold; sometimes, they read in silence, and other times, they playfully bickered with each other. Howon remembers playing Super Mario out here once too. Already the both of them could see the ice was melting just as fast as snow was passing into spring.
"You know—"
"I—"
The both of them begin at the same time, and stare at each other incredulously, neither of them able to help the small smiles slowly making their way onto their faces. "You first," Howon says.
"We've been together almost five months, Howon. But I still don't know much about you; I've told you almost everything about you that anyone would care to know," Dongwoo says, the words tumbling out in a rush, as if he's been waiting all these months to say it.
Howon takes his hand and reels him in, loving how the gaps between his fingers seem to be sculpted to fit no one else's but Dongwoo's. Dongwoo buries his face in Howon's shoulder, breathing in his scent, hair fluttering slightly each time Howon exhaled. He's missed this. They've missed this. "I'll answer anything you ask," Howon promises.
"What's your favourite colour?"
"Purple."
"Do you like history?"
"Who likes history?"
"Do you love me?"
Howon pulls away then, and looks Dongwoo straight in the eye. "Yes. Yes, I love you, so, so much. You have no idea what these two weeks have been. The reason why I couldn't say it before was because I didn't know how," he admits. "You'd always have some genuine way of telling me you loved me, and I couldn't think of anything half as amazing. Don't think, for a second, that I don't feel the same way."
Dongwoo draws closer, and his whisper matches Howon's in fervency. "Say it again," he pleads, and already they are losing, falling, tumbling hopelessly into each other (or, at least, that's how Howon pictures it in a book). He obliges, and says, "I love you."
"There are no special words, Howon. You said that from the heart, and that's what makes it special." Dongwoo barely gets the sentence out before Howon takes his face in both his hands and kisses him deep, hopefully pouring out all his words of love into the touch, conveying through actions what he couldn't through words.
When he pulls away, matching smiles on their faces, Howon sees the bookcase over Dongwoo's shoulder and thinks it's as good a time as any. "Can I tell you something?" he asks, and Dongwoo only nods, breath escaping him. "I'm Lee H. Y'know, Lee Howon? My initial is H. I'm the 'faceless writer' no one knows about; that's why I didn't tell you," he says, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. After all the revelations tonight, Howon feels as if this is insignificant, but Dongwoo only stares back at him.
"Y-You can't be serious!" he sputters. "No, I mean, I believe you! What I'm trying to say is, I'm J! My family name starts with a J and I couldn't think of anything else so I just went with it and I can't believe you're the 'bestseller archenemy', or at least Woohyun calls you that, but to think we've been at each other's throats in the publishing world for years –" Howon cuts Dongwoo off with another kiss, the only way he knows how to make him stop.
"So you've been a big fan of mine," Dongwoo says, smiling against Howon's lips.
"And you're the jackass holding up the rankings with your new Christmas compilation," Howon retorts, laughing when Dongwoo shoves him playfully.
"I love you," Howon says, and this time, Dongwoo only smiles in return, letting Howon have the last words of the night.
The right words, three simple ones, have come to him at last.