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Jihyun Kim remembers certain things about his life, little insignificant things that press into his skull and twirl around until the memory tires itself out enough to retreat. There’s a certain kind of affection that glosses over tempered blue hues, one that tells a story and binds him to it eternally. Memories need to be treasured because he knows he knows death with lose them.
They come in things that remind him and afternoon daydreams, and his father always cautioned him well on that daydreaming was not good for the heart, for it reminds them of their heartaches and troubles. He never understands the meaning of that until he grows older.
He sees people as canvases that are ever changing and constantly being painted over in the same way the Mona Lisa seems to be, with another painting underneath and another story to tell. When he looks at Jumin, he imagines Black On Gray by Mark Rothko covering his fingers and pressed onto his delicate skin. Jumin’s reputation in his heart is as something different , something far more efficient and less about the arts than anything he’d ever encountered. He’s a being built for business, unlike Jihyun who seems awfully sub-par in comparison. Perhaps it was because he was never meant to be stuffed into button ups and fit into shined shoes.
He remembers the smile on his mother’s face when he presents his drawings, a time between two worlds that wedges in at Jumin’s suggestion. Hesitance breathes on his neck and tells him that he shouldn’t enjoy drawing as much as he should while his heart yearns for something more. His father tells him there shouldn’t be more he sought than numbers and reports and, by result, tangibility begins to tire him. Paint brushes and discolored water in old glass cups begin finding shelter in his heart when he begins his expedition into painting, a tale spun by fear and suppression and hidden canvases begin to pile underneath his bed. He bribes the maid that cleans his room to keep quiet about the paintings he hides in his room, not that his father really visits his room anyways.
Time never tells him when his mother leaves him, and the fire that engulfs her is the same fire that clears out everything inside of him as well. Hollow plasters are never aware that they are hollow, and the same falls true for Jihyun when he stands by her wooden casket. His time with her was loveless and he feels the regret pouring into his lungs the same way cement is used to fill cracks on the streets.
Jumin recalls the pastime of how their houses had been so large that they could play hide and seek for hours, and finding him this time isn’t much different—he finds Jihyun crumpled in the guest bedroom’s closet. He looks more ghost than person when grief demands him, and Jumin leaves wide and awkward strokes on his back as sobs submerge him into unconsciousness.
When the school's annual talent show arises, there’s nothing short of a disturbing ruckus in the halls and a bustling of crowds. Boredom leads to two extra attendances, and neither expect much as they sit together at the far end of a theatre he’s long forgotten. While the details didn’t matter so much as the pain did, he remembers it well enough: a child with a violin, playing a composition his mother was renowned for. He knows the notes of her compositions like he knows basic algebra and business studies, but the sound is nothing but deafening for him now. Jumin doesn’t ask him why he leaves, and finds him later in a bathroom stall with hurricanes for eyes.
As they age, Jumin leaves to study abroad and Jihyun is left alone, save for the letters that turn into e-mails because the latter’s handwriting falls short of a tragedy. Jihyun spends his afternoons wondering what Jumin’s life was like studying abroad. Somehow, he misses Jumin’s presence, and possibly even his touch.
There are things to distract him. A messy one night stand and a short-lived lover whose name began with an R, Jihyun’s break into the photography world was nothing but fumbles and tumbles that leave him empty somehow in the middle of the night. When he leaves his lover he considers it another escapade of an artist’s journey, all while in the anticipation of Jumin’s arrival back home.
When Jumin settles back in a pristine penthouse (a humble and sizeable downgrade from the homes they grew up in), they spend nights bathing in wine and laughter in a place where the sun can’t even reach them. He spends hours in days attempting to readjust himself to Jumin after years lost. There’s a particular feeling that stills inside of Jihyun whenever he hears the silky laughter that emanates from his best friend, a feeling that runs out of his grasp when he tries to address it. The world stops itself and bows when Jumin is around, and Jihyun understands well enough now that it was an inherited quality that made him such a force to begin with. There’s an art in how Jumin talks of vampires and witchcraft that leaves his eyes gleaming; Jihyun finds himself unable to look away.
What he doesn’t anticipate is Jumin’s lips hovering his neck one day, after a long discussion about vampires for the fifth time that night. Jumin’s drunken stupor allows himself to show Jihyun how vampires bite humans, and it leads to something a little less about vampires and more about affection when he can smell Jihyun’s faint cologne on him. Silence had never been more similar to a live wire until now, and the territory they both stumble into is nothing short of innocent.
Ten seconds pass before Jumin’s lips lower themselves enough to press against his neck, a tenderness that leaves Jihyun’s spine tingling when he repeats the notion. Jihyun remains well aware of what’s going on—he was never the type to get too ahead of himself—and he wonders if Jumin is the same.
A little indulgence never hurt anyone, though. Jihyun finds himself tapping Jumin’s chin lightly enough for him to look up, his eyes revealing just how much wine he had consumed for the night. “You know,” Jihyun began, looking vaguely at the wine glasses that stand on the glass coffee table. “If you’re going to confess your attraction to me, I expect a real kiss. The neck is a little safe, don’t you think?”
Jumin’s brows furrow and unfurrow accordingly as he adjusts himself to sit upwards again. Before he can say anything else, Jihyun’s voice cuts through the silence.
“Usually, I expect a candlelit dinner at the minimum beforehand.” Liquid boldness gave him the words he searches for with ease. “Since it’s you, however, we can make an exception.”
“You hate candlelit dinners. You complained that you couldn’t see the menu when we went to eat with your father once.” Jumin’s voice remains matter-of-factly with an inebriated undertone lacing his syllables.
Jihyun can’t help himself from soft laughter. “I guess you’re right.”
Slender fingers known for photography and painting and other unspeakable things hold Jumin’s chin once again, this time to level his gaze to his. He finds it odd that there’s no hesitance to this, no worrisome forethought of rejection when it came to Jumin—it’s hard to tell if it’s the wine or the fact that a part of him had known all along it could lead up to this.
Vaguely, he recalls every longing moment he’s ever had for Jumin in the years they’d been apart, and how he’d feel fulfilled by Jumin’s stumbling attempts at comfort when he was there.
Kissing him has never been something he dwells on, but he never liked thinking about things he thinks he can’t have—until now, that is.
There’s no calculation and all nerve when he crashes his lips against Jumin’s, fervor and ardor encasing them in a heat only the two of them shared. The thrill of kissing him was uncomparable, making every kiss he had before seem mediocre and commonplace; he wonders where Jumin learned to kiss like that from.
Lips mold and engulf in each other enough to leave them both flushed, with none of it having to do with the wine they drank, despite it being the catalyst. The kiss was much more thought than feeling than Jihyun was used to and yet it isn’t unpleasant; perhaps it was because his feelings are already assured. They become a tangle of arms and lips until Jumin’s hand snakes in between his coat and shirt. It’s then when Jihyun stops him, separating himself for air and to speak hoarsely.
“You’re drunk.” He means for the words to come off chastising, but the gentle smile that dons his face conveys something else entirely.
“So are you. Your eyes slant up by approximately 0.03 centimeters when you’re drunk. They’re slanted at 0.02 right now.”
“Leave it to you to have the precise measurements.”
Jumin’s flushed face and swollen lips are tempting, but he knows much better than to do anything while they’re both intoxicated, Jumin more so than him. Indulgence comes to its end when Jihyun stands up, a hand extending to help Jumin do the same.
“As much as I love the idea of kissing the Jumin Han, my better judgement tells me that we can continue this another time.”
For Jihyun Kim, a kiss was enough to leave him contented when he was guaranteed that there’d be a next time.