Work Text:
***
Sydney’s just another city, another keychain to add to your collection and another bus ticket tucked into your notebook, another addition to the list of places you’ve run to.
The thing is, you don’t quite know what you’re running from.
Home is stifling, and the prospect of being tied down - by a job, by your family, by your failed relationships, by obligations and responsibilities - it’s enough to set you on edge, static buzzing in your brain, and -
It wasn’t hard to get a working holiday visa to Australia, to get twelve months of freedom in a foreign land, and that’s how you wound up here. You’ve been making your way slowly across the continent, working a series of casual, part-time jobs and trying your hand at the slot machines when you need cash, meandering into towns, visiting cities with little rhyme or reason.
You’re six months into the experience when you land in Sydney, which is busy and loud in completely different ways from the Gold Coast, and a few days in, you’re liking it, the blue of the harbour and the way it lights up at night, the way people are friendly even against the bustle of the city.
One of the girls you’re sharing a room with at the hostel smiles when you come in.
“A few of us are heading to a gig at a bar near Central,” she says, “do you wanna come with?”
You shrug.
“Why not?”
‘A few of us’ translates to a gaggle of some of the other guests at the hostel, and it’s easy to be swept along with them, out into the cool spring night. You’re just wearing a leather jacket with a black dress and tights, and you’re grateful for the weather, that the biting chill of winter has turned into spring.
Although, honestly speaking, you spent most of the Australian winter on the tropical side of the country.
“Who’s playing tonight?” you ask one of the other girls in the group - Jiwoo, on holiday from Korea - and Jiwoo smiles, thumbing open her phone to bring up a flyer.
“It’s a mix,” she explains - her English is accented, but her grammar is impeccable, “mostly rap music, I think.”
You hum as you skim over the list of names.
You don’t recognize anyone on the list, not that you care about the Australian indie rap scene, but there’s one act that catches your eye.
3RACHA.
“Like the sauce,” you comment, pointing it out to Jiwoo, and she laughs.
“You like sriracha?” she asks, as the bar draws near, and you think about it.
The tang on your tongue, the way the spices burn on your lips, the way it intensifies and deepens the flavours around it.
You quirk your lips.
“Yeah, I do.”
***
The bar's not half-bad.
You’ve seen your share, because drinking appears to be the de facto mode of passing time among bored hostelites in the land down under - and so you buy yourself a mojito, you let Jiwoo cajole you into sharing a bucket of something rife with sugar syrup and cheap vodka.
Your group manages to snag a spot near the stage, a little off to one side. You don't quite care - rap’s not really your scene, although you can appreciate a sick beat and well-written verse, but you're mostly here for the booze.
It's not a very long lineup - just a few acts before the bar turns back into, well, a bar - and 3RACHA is set to go last, if you remember the flyer correctly.
It's a hilarious name, really.
You're not surprised when the group is announced, and it turns out they're a rap trio.
They're all Asian, interestingly enough, and they seem out of place against the flurry of white fuckboys and black hip-hop superstar wannabes that took the stage before them, but when they start - wow .
The beat is killer, and they're actually spitting fire, switching effortlessly between English and a foreign language you only vaguely recognise, never missing a line or fumbling a verse.
Jiwoo's hand lands on your arm.
"They're rapping in Korean!!" she yells at you, excitedly, over the noise, and you smile at her cheer before turning your attention back to the stage.
They're quite a striking sight. One of the guys has a Balenciaga t-shirt stretched over broad shoulders and hair dyed silver, rapping like a bullet train. The other looks younger, his dark hair streaked with glitter, big eyes wide as he hipchecks his friend and launches into his own verse.
But your eye is drawn to the third member of the trio, the one perched on the edge of the stage. He’s got quite an amazing singing voice, his tenor sweeping in at the edge of the glittery-haired boy's rapid-fire verse.
He's handsome, with tousled bleached-blonde hair and features like they've been carved from marble.
When he gets back up, leaping back onto the stage with a loud whoop to hype up the crowd, he lifts his shirt, giving the audience a glimpse of incredibly defined washboard abs.
"Oh my god he's so hot," you hear someone say behind you, and well, you're alive, so you agree.
They end their set with a bang.
You turn to Jiwoo.
"They were rapping in Korean!" she repeats, and you smile, finishing off the last of your cocktail.
Her happiness is palpable, and you let her convince you to split another weird bucket of syrup-laden vodka.
A few of your group move to the dance floor, and Jiwoo tips her head towards them, a questioning look in her eyes.
"Later," you tell her, "I need a smoke."
"You want me to come with you?" she asks, and you shake your head.
"I'll find you later," you tell her, and she joins the rest as you head out of the bar, ducking into the alley behind it.
There are a few fellow smokers around, and no one pays you any mind as you slink over to an empty space, pulling the pack out of your purse, the cigarette between your lips as you rummage for your lighter.
But you rummage and rummage and-
Well, fuck.
You left it in your haversack, didn't you.
You curse, and then you hear the click of a lighter.
"Need a light?" someone asks, and you look up.
It's the guy from 3RACHA - the handsome one with messy hair and a deep tenor, with the chiseled abs and the fine features.
You'll admit, he looks good even in the dim street light.
"Thanks," you say.
He raises the lighter, and you lean forward, touching the tip of your cigarette to the flame, oddly intimate for two strangers in an alleyway.
It catches, and you pull back, taking a drag and exhaling a cloud of smoke into the night sky.
"Thanks," you repeat, and his smile is almost sweet, as he takes a step back and lights up a cigarette of his own.
The two of you smoke in silence for a while, and with the edge taken off, you decide to make small talk - he did, after all, save you from nicotine deprivation.
"It was a good set just now," you tell him, "my friend was so excited that you guys were rapping in Korean."
You use the term 'friend' loosely - you've known Jiwoo for a few days.
The guy grins.
"Is she Korean?"
"Here on holiday from Busan," you answer.
"What about you?" he asks.
You tell him - about where you're from, about your working holiday visa - and he smiles.
"That's neat," he says, and he extends his hand to you.
"I'm Chris, by the way."
"Y/N," you reply.
The handshake is firm on both your parts, and he quirks his lips.
"So which parts of Australia have you been to so far?" he asks.
You take another drag of your cigarette and tell him.
Conversation is easy, with Chris - he seems genuine, and he's forthcoming with tidbits about himself. He was born in South Korea, grew up in Sydney, and went back to Korea for high school and college. He met the other two members of 3RACHA at a music showcase in university, and the rest was history.
You learn that Han, the one with glittery hair, is the youngest among the trio, that Changbin - the broad-shouldered one - has an older sister. You learn that they're taking some time to explore the Australian rap scene, after achieving some success in Korea.
In turn, you tell him about your wanderings in Australia, about the place you grew up in.
Honestly you lose track of time, the two of you talking as your cigarettes burn down to stubs. There’s something about Chris that makes him easy to talk to, and conversation flows freely between the two of you.
But all good things come to an end.
"Oi, hyung!"
You both turn, and you see Han stalking over.
"Dude, you're slow, Binnie-hyung wants to do shots," he says, in accented English.
It's a different accent from Jiwoo's - there's some trace of a Korean accent there, but there’s a lilt to it that seems distinctly Malaysian or Singaporean.
"How long does it take you to smoke a cigarette?" the boy complains, his cheeks puffing up in indignation, and then he notices that you're there.
His big eyes open wide.
"Oops interrupting something nevermind bye," he yelps, whirling around to leave, and Chris reaches out to snag him by the back of his shirt, almost like a mother cat catching a kitten by the scruff.
"I'll be there in five," he says, and Han shoots him finger guns before scurrying back to the bar.
Chris stubs out his cigarette and rakes his fingers through his hair in a way that's undeniably attractive.
"Sorry, Han's an oddball."
You smile.
"He's cute," you say, "like a squirrel."
Chris laughs.
He sighs, and you drop the butt of your cigarette on the floor, stubbing it out with your boot.
"I should go," you say, "my friend's probably wondering where I am."
"Yeah, I gotta get back too," Chris says.
Neither of you move - and then Chris is fumbling his phone out of his pocket.
"Do you wanna go to our next show? We've got another gig on the weekend," he says.
Well, he's endearing, and he's handsome, and it's not like you've got anything planned.
"What's your Instagram?" you ask, "just send me the details."
You follow each other, and your phone lights up with a DM from him, a flyer about their next gig at a club near Pyrmont.
"I'll see you there?" he asks, and you smile.
"Sure."
***
You spend the next few days exploring the city's museums, walking along the harbour and marveling at the Opera House, at the bridge that stands tall over the water. You sit in the Botanic Gardens, in the warm spring air, and just breathe in the smell of nature, of flowers.
You spend the next few nights at The Star, in the red-carpeted halls of the casino, because fortune favours the bold.
And fortune favours you at the roulettes and the slots, assuring you that you could easily spend another month idle if you watched your bank balance carefully.
Sydney - Sydney is just another city, another keychain to add to your collection and another bus ticket tucked into your notebook, another addition to the list of places you’ve run to - but there's something about it that feels different.
You’re sitting along Darling Harbour on Saturday evening, chewing on pearls from your cup of bubble tea.
You’re just one of many faces in the crowd, staring at the city’s skyline as the sun sets.
Your phone lights up with a notification, and you look at it.
It’s a DM from Chris.
See you tonight?
And another one.
At the gig.
You smile, and unlock your phone to type up your response.
Of course.
You haven’t seen him since that conversation you shared outside the bar, but the day after, he’d sent you some restaurant recommendations, following up on the conversation you'd been having before Han had interrupted.
The two of you have been messaging on and off since then - a response to your Instagram story about trying ice-cream from Messina, you telling him how much you enjoyed brunch at Pancakes on the Rocks, a thumbs-up emoji on a picture of you posing in front of the Opera House.
It’s just some mundane conversation about the banal, and it’s nice.
It helps that Chris is genuine, even over text. He’s a little awkward, but oddly sweet, and there’s something about him that makes it easy to want to open up, to share things.
And of course, you indulged in a bit of Instagram stalking, when you were picking at your fries over lunch the other day. Chris’ Instagram looks like that of any other twenty something-year-old dude - photos with friends, snapshots of what you presume is his dog, some scenery, and very memorably, a recent mirror selfie of him at the gym, the musculature of his thighs and arms obvious.
So sue you, he’s handsome, and fun to talk to, and seems like a nice guy.
Something in the back of your brain bares its teeth, that instinct to run rearing its head, and it's at war with something else, something vaguely hopeful and wishful.
You tamp it down.
It’s just another gig, another night of good music and fun, and Sydney’s just another city.
***
The club the gig is at is small but cozy, one of the nicer ones you’ve seen.
Just tell the guys out front your name, and that you’re with me, Chris texts, as you make your way to the club, and you do just that.
You get a ticket to the venue without your credit card needing to leave your wallet, and it even comes with a coupon for a free drink.
“Chris asked us to set one aside for you, special,” the bouncer says, and you shrug.
You never say no to free things, and you slide over to the bar, ordering yourself a cranberry vodka as the venue begins to fill up.
You’re there alone - Jiwoo’s gone up to the Blue Mountains, and the other hostelites have better places to be on a Saturday.
And so, on your own, you settle into a seat at the back of the venue, close to the bar.
This gig is just 3RACHA’s gig - a whole hour and a half dedicated to them and their music, which is pretty cool.
You followed the group’s Instagram, the day after you met Chris, and so you know that they consider themselves a self-producing trio, that they write, arrange and compose all of their own music.
It’s an excellent gig - the previous show highlighted their talent, and now that they have the stage to themselves, they shine even brighter. The glitter in Han’s hair sparkles purple and blue under the stage lights, and Changbin appears to have changed up how he’s styled his hair, slicking it back instead of sweeping it aside.
And Chris - well.
It’s still spring, and chilly, but the club is warm, and so Chris is on stage, in ripped jeans and a black muscle tank.
His sleeveless shirt highlights the fact that he probably spends a fair amount of time at the gym, even more so than that mirror selfie on Instagram.
Those biceps are very distracting, and you make the executive decision to order another drink, this time a whiskey and coke.
It’s a great set - mostly English songs, this time, although they did throw in a couple of songs with Korean lyrics - and you can tell that the crowd is enjoying themselves. It’s a good atmosphere, and you ride the collective effervescence, bobbing your head to the beat.
The performance ends, the lights dim and the DJ starts playing some reasonably sick beats, and you return your attention to what is now your third drink of the night.
It’s a neat bourbon, deep and smoky, to balance out the sugary-sweetness of your previous two cocktails.
The groupies are in action, because even if 3RACHA aren’t famous , they’re still three handsome guys who actually have some talent and can work a stage. You figure you’ll let that die down a bit, finish up your drink before wandering over to say hi to Chris.
That plan gets thwarted when someone slides into the seat next to you, and leans into your personal space.
You take a moment to assess the intruder. He’s a typical white frat boy or the equivalent, probably a university kid out on the town, younger than you, and way too cocksure.
“Can I get you another drink?” he asks, wilfully ignoring the fact that your glass is still half-full, and you raise it.
“I’m good, thanks,” you tell him, and he presses closer.
Your hackles rise.
“Surely there’s something I can do for you,” he cajoles, and you roll your eyes.
“Leave me alone,” you grit out, and he frowns.
“You-”
He tries to grab your wrist, you slap his hand away, and you see red, ready for blood, your hand curled into a fist - and then his hand is grabbed by another.
“She told you to leave her alone,” someone says, and you turn to look at Chris, standing there, gripping the guy’s arm hard enough to bruise.
He looks furious.
“Hyung, stay cool,” Changbin says, his voice tight, and Han’s hand is on Chris’ shoulder, almost holding him back.
The tension in the air could be cut with a knife, nearly all eyes in the club drawn to the scene, the possibility of an altercation heavy in the air.
You exhale sharply.
“It’s not worth it, Chris,” you tell him, and he releases the other guy from his vice-like grip, sending him back whimpering to his gaggle of fuckboy friends with a glare.
Then he turns to you, and his gaze softens.
“You alright?” he asks, and you take a sip from your glass, a bid to steady your nerves.
“I’m cool, this isn’t the first time this shit’s happened,” you say lightly, and he frowns.
“That doesn’t make it better,” he says, and you hide your smile in your drink.
“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, and against your better judgment you tip the rest of the bourbon down your throat, setting your glass down on the counter with a clink.
“Wanna go for a smoke?” you ask, and he nods.
You’re not sure if Han and Changbin high-five, because it looks like they did, out of the corner of your eye, but Chris has a hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd, and honestly? You could care less.
***
You have your own lighter this time, and you slip the Zippo out of your jacket pocket once the two of you step out of the club, lighting up the moment you cross the line into the smoking zone.
You’re not quite over how much it costs to smoke in this damn country, and if you were a little wiser you’d have quit this filthy habit a long time ago.
But you’re not.
That’s why you find yourself smoking under a streetlight with a handsome boy, who unfortunately is now wearing a thick bomber jacket against the cold, one that hides his muscular arms under dark fabric.
“It was a good set,” you tell Chris, once you’ve smoked half your cigarette and the flight-or-fight response from dealing with the asshole has worn off, “you guys are really talented.”
“Thank you,” he says, and then, “I’m sorry you had that encounter with that jerk, they usually try to keep the riff-raff out.”
“It’s no big deal,” you answer, sending a cloud of smoke out into the sky, “anyway, you broke things up before it got ugly - I nearly got arrested once for breaking my glass over the head of some wanker who tried to feel me up.”
Chris coughs on his lungful of smoke.
“Where was this?”
“Hong Kong,” you answer, lightly, “I was young and pretty then so I just batted my eyelashes at the cops when they showed up.”
He laughs.
“You’re still young and pretty,” he says, easily, and you smile.
“Flatterer,” you reply, and he chuckles.
“How did you find the fish market, by the way?” he asks, and just like that, the conversation flows between the two of you as you fill him in on your adventures in Sydney, over the last few days.
“I haven’t had a chance to go to the beach yet,” you say, when he asks, “I’ve been told Bondi is lovely.”
You love the beach - you spent so much time in Queensland because of the gorgeous beaches, chasing the sun and the sea.
“I love Bondi," he says, like a confession, "I spent so much time there as a kid, but I haven’t had a chance to go yet.”
“Busy?”
“We’ve been packed with gigs ever since we got here,” he admits, “but today’s the last one for a while, so I was hoping to get some quiet time, see the sights.”
“Want some company?” you offer, because what do you have to lose, and his smile is genuine.
“Why not?”
***
Tuesday morning finds you getting off the train at Bondi Junction - you’ll never get over how the trains here are double-deckers - and you wait at the bus interchange.
“Y/N!” someone calls, and you look up to smile at Chris - and at the two familiar figures trailing after him.
Han waves at you, grinning broadly, and Changbin just nods his head.
You raise your eyebrow, and Chris rolls his eyes.
“Sorry, the circus decided at the last minute that they wanted to come along,” he says, jerking a thumb at the two boys behind him, and Han scoffs.
“It’s the beach! Besides, Changbin-hyung and I are just here to enjoy the sun,” Han says, “I am not doing that coastal walk, Chan-hyung is a psychopath, no offense.”
You presume Chan must be Chris’ Korean name, given how Chris rolls his eyes.
Part of the plan for the day was a slow meander along the Bondi-Coogee coastal walk, which, as far as you could tell from the pictures, looked like a relatively easy trek with some lovely views, although Han clearly disagreed.
“It’s a great experience,” Chris insists, “the beaches are amazing, you don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I lived in Malaysia,” Han answers, which if nothing else explains the lilt of his voice, how he rounds certain vowels and cuts others short.
“Lazy,” Changbin says, smiling wryly at you as he jabs his fingers into Han’s side, and they descend into a squabble of Korean.
Chris sighs, and you get the feeling the bickering is just a regular Tuesday for 3RACHA.
“Shall we?” he asks, jerking his head at the queue for the bus to Bondi Beach, and you smile.
“Sure.”
It’s not a very long bus ride, and not very crowded, probably on account of it being close to noon on a weekday, when most of the population’s in school or at work.
You spend most of the ride looking at pictures of Chris’ family dog on his phone, Han and Changbin in the seat behind you chattering rapidly.
The bus pulls up at Bondi Beach, and when you alight, the smell of salt in the air and the ocean breeze is revitalizing. The water looks so blue, from where you are, and you can’t wait to get the sand between your toes, to dip your feet into the water.
“Feed me,” Han demands dramatically, and Chris sweeps the lot of you into the nearest Oporto, taking orders and leaving you with Han and Changbin.
“So, Y/N, where are you from?” Han asks, and you fill them in. You learn that Han - whose given name is actually Jisung - spent most of his teenage years in Malaysia before returning to Korea for college. You find out that Changbin, who hadn’t left Korea until he was in university, is the least fluent in English, although he definitely understands more than he lets on. You talk to Han about Malaysian food, and Changbin tells you about Seoul in halting sentences, Han jumping in when he stumbles.
Chris returns with food.
“Nice to see you’re all getting along,” he says, and Han and Changbin fall onto the platters of chicken and french fries like they’ve been starved.
Lunch is tasty, and you find that calling Han a squirrel wasn’t too far off, because the boy stuffs his cheeks in a way that’s just adorable.
You also find that you actually enjoy hanging out with the three of them. Chris is the oldest in the group, but has his moments of childishness, spurred by Han’s ability to turn anything into a joke and Changbin’s well-timed jibes. It’s clear that they’re close friends, and that they're practically brothers, and it’s nice, to be surrounded by that kind of camaraderie.
You end up leaning on Chris, trying to contain your laughter by muffling yourself in his shoulder, and he’s comfortable enough to elbow you when you say something snarky at his expense, Han and Changbin giggling like hyenas.
When lunch is over, the two boys run off to find an ice-cream parlour for dessert, and you and Chris decide to take a stroll along the shops before heading to the beach.
You pass by the tattoo parlour on the stretch, and your eyes widen in recognition at the name.
“I’ve seen this place on TV,” you tell him, “they’ve got a reality show.”
“You like tattoos?” he asks, and you laugh.
“I love them, I keep wanting to get more,” you admit, and he blinks.
“What do you have?”
You realise he’s never had an opportunity to see your ink. You never posted about them on social media, because of the nature of your previous job, and well, Sydney in the spring is still cold enough for long sleeves.
You roll up the sleeve of your sweater, exposing the intricate, stylized illustration of the solar system that runs down your left forearm, all delicate strokes and geometric lines.
“I’ve got another on my ribcage, but that’s pretty challenging to show you right now,” you joke, and he looks at the ink on your arm in fascination.
“It’s really cool,” he says, and you smile.
You think you might get another one, before you leave Australia. A year is a long time to spend somewhere, and it’d be nice to get something to remember the experience by.
The two of you head to the beach next, jaywalking across the street, and you kick your sneakers off as soon as you’re able to, stuffing your socks into them and relishing in the feeling of sand under your toes.
Chris follows at a much more leisurely pace, and arches a brow at the way you’re determinedly rolling up the legs of your pants.
“It's going to be freezing,” he warns, and you flap your hand at him.
“How bad can it be?” you ask, already wandering over to the water, sticking your foot into the surf without thinking twice.
You hiss at the sudden chill, and Chris just laughs.
Okay, you probably deserved that, but it doesn’t stop you from sticking your tongue out at him as you poke your other foot into the water, flinching at the cold.
Still, you’re not going to let something as banal as temperature stop you from enjoying the beach, and so you steel yourself, dipping both toes in.
It’s like swimming, really - you just gotta keep moving, and eventually, you’ll acclimatize.
You notice that Chris has joined you, standing at the edge of the water, letting the waves lap at his toes, and you’re about to say something when a loud shout distracts you both.
You turn just in time to see Han practically leap out of the water, the hem of his jeans soaked as he yells at Changbin.
“Chan-hyung, Changbin-hyung told me it’d be warm!” he complains, and Chris rolls his eyes.
“It’s eighteen degrees out, Hannie,” he says, “what did you expect?”
“It’s sunny,” Changbin offers, although his grin is shit-eating, “I thought it’d make a difference.”
Han rounds on him, speaking rapidly in Korean, and Chris just shakes his head, coming into the water to stand next to you.
“This is nice,” you tell him, “it must be wonderful in the summer.”
“Don’t come in the summer,” Chris advises wryly, “it’s packed, and it’s nowhere as pleasant as it is now.”
You relish the sun and sea, just standing in the water and staring out at the horizon.
The two of you wilfully ignore the splash fight that’s ensuing a few feet away.
“Shall we get started on the walk?” Chris asks, after a few minutes of silence, “we can take it slow and be done in time for dinner.”
“Sure,” you say, and he turns to Changbin and Han, who look like they’re trying to put each other in a headlock.
“We’re heading off,” he tells them, “don’t die and I’ll see you back at the apartment.”
“Have fun!” Han yells, from where he’s smushed up under Changbin’s armpit, “don’t do anything I wouldn't do! Remember to use-”
The rest of what he’s saying is muffled by Changbin finally getting him into a headlock, and it descends into chaos.
“Will they be alright?” you ask, as Han trips Changbin and they go crashing into the sand.
Chris’ ears are red - probably from embarrassment, because the two of them are very loud - and he shakes his head.
“Jisung speaks English and Bin has an internet connection, they’ll be fine.”
The two of you pick up your shoes and bags, heading to the small washing-up area to clean the sand off your feet and dry off before putting your shoes back on for the trek.
You duck into the washroom, to freshen up, and when you come out Chris is waiting for you, looking out at the water.
He’s handsome in the afternoon light, the cut of his jaw defined, cheekbones high and his eyes lidded, and there’s just something different about him, a shift in the air.
He turns, you blink, and the spell is broken.
“Ready to go?” he asks, and you smile.
“Let’s go.”
***
It’s an easy hike.
Honestly, calling it a hike may be an overstatement. It’s a walk, on perfectly paved paths, a little steep at some parts, but otherwise a very straightforward journey, a meander along six kilometres of the Sydney coastline.
It’s an enjoyable experience. On one side, you have the ocean spread out before you, green and blue and turquoise as the sun dances across the water, and on the other, you can see the changing landscape of the city, how the bustle of Bondi fades quietly away into a more suburban area, family homes dotting the skyline.
Chris is a good walking companion. He isn’t very talkative, and doesn’t feel the need to fill the air with chatter, and he’s happy to just stroll along quietly, soaking up the atmosphere.
You stop for a smoke break about mid-way through the journey, and when your cigarette is done you take the opportunity to snap some photos of the horizon, marvelling at how brilliantly blue it is.
“I’ll take a photo for you,” he offers, “you should have some pictures of yourself.”
“Thanks,” you say, passing him your phone, and he snaps a few photos.
“We should take one together,” you suggest, as he returns your phone to you, and he laughs.
“You do it, I’m terrible at selfies.”
So the two of you take a few selfies, and you approach a couple, some fellow walkers on the trail, asking them if they could take a photo for you. The lady acquiesces, and Chris slings his arm over your shoulder. You flash a victory sign, and the shutter goes off.
“Thank you!” you tell the lady, taking your phone back from her, and she smiles.
“It’s no trouble,” she replies, “by the way, the two of you make a very cute couple.”
You laugh.
“It’s nothing like that,” you say, slipping your phone back into your pocket, “we’re just friends.”
You ignore the voices in your head, the instinct to run warring with the wishfulness, and wander over to Chris, who is answering some texts on his phone.
“Are you on Telegram?” you ask, “I realise I need to send these photos to you and Instagram is shit for things like that.”
“Oh yeah, sure,” he says, sharing his username with you, and you send over the photos, relishing the fact that you have quite the hefty data plan.
The rest of the walk is comfortable, and you find out more about each other.
Chris’ entire family is in Australia, he’s studying music in university, and he’s not sure about his plans for the future, he has a close circle of friends back in Korea (aside from Han and Changbin there are five others, making them a group of eight in total, of which one is a fellow Sydneysider), he swam competitively for almost ten years.
In turn, you tell him about your family, how you live in the same city but barely see each other, about your friends back home and their lives, about the other places you’ve traveled ( run ) to over the years.
The sun is starting to dip, when you reach Coogee, and you take a moment to appreciate the sunset, leaning against one of the railings and feeling the wind in your hair.
“I love the beach,” you say, and Chris comes to stand next to you. His arm brushes against yours, and you don’t mind it at all, leaning into his warmth.
He lets you.
“City beaches are nice,” he says, “but if you’re willing to make a trip of it and go to the small towns, it’s incredible. Seven Mile Beach is amazing for surfing, or if you just want to get away from the bustle for a while.”
“If only I had a car,” you joke. Your driver’s licence is honestly just for show, because getting behind the wheel in the city you're from is an exercise in anxiety - and Chris, well.
“I can drive you,” he says, and then he catches himself, backpedalling a little.
“I mean, if you want! It’s hard to see the really nice sights if you don’t have a car, and you’re all the way here in Australia, and -”
He stops, because you start laughing, and his ears are red.
It’s endearing, and you lay your hand on his arm, fingers curling around it.
“Don’t sweat it,” you say, easily.
And again the warning bells in your head are going off, your self-preservation instincts at war with the side of you that throws caution to the wind and runs, runs from responsibility and runs from restriction, tangled up and caught up with a heady kind of wishfulness and wanting.
Fortune favours the bold, and maybe the luck you had at the casino will hold.
“Let’s make a trip of it,” you tell him, and he smiles.
***
“You did the Bondi-Coogee walk with one of the 3RACHA guys?” Jiwoo asks, when she sees you sitting in the common area at the hostel, scrolling through your phone and despairing over an ex-classmate announcing her pregnancy on Facebook.
Ah, so she’s been on Instagram.
“Yeah, and I had lunch with the other two,” you remark, accepting the bottle of beer she passes to you.
“How are they like?”
“Fun,” you answer, “I think we’re all quite close in age, so we have things in common.”
“It helps that you are all talking in English,” Jiwoo muses, “Korean’s big on honorifics and age hierarchies, it makes it awkward sometimes. You are older than them, right?”
“Chris is twenty-three and he’s the oldest, so yes,” you answer, and she hums.
“One of my friends from high school is expecting a baby,” you add, picking at the label of your drink, “I’m ancient, Jiwoo.”
“You’re twenty-five,” she says, rolling her eyes, and yeah, that’s what you said when you were twenty.
“Wait till your friends start reproducing,” you tell her, “you’ll feel really old then.”
Jiwoo scoffs, and you laugh, and you clink your beers together.
“You spent a lot of time with Chris,” she says. It’s not quite a statement, not quite a question, and she's careful with her words, and you shrug.
“He’s easy to talk to, and he’s nice,” you say, “I’m alone here in Australia, I’d like to make some friends.”
“He’s also easy to, what’s the phrase, easy to look at?” Jiwoo asks, and you laugh.
“Easy on the eyes, but easy to look at could work too, yeah,” you tell her, “that does help.”
Jiwoo hums.
“We’re going on a road trip together next week,” you remark, “we’re heading up to Gerroa, and Seven Mile Beach.”
“Just the two of you?” she asks, and if she’d been anyone else, you’d have been offended by the questions.
But even though you’ve known Jiwoo for something like two weeks, you can tell that she’s genuinely concerned. It’s nice that someone who barely knows you is worried about you.
And well - you’re not stupid. You’ve been running, running for years from something you can’t quite place - and the prospect of being tied down, by a job, by your family, by obligations and responsibilities, sets you on edge, static white in your brain.
You spent summers in college abroad, wanting to be anywhere but the place that was supposed to be home, and you’ve seen your fair share of the world, gotten into trouble and gotten out of it, hooked up with pretty boys and pretty girls.
You know how to play this game.
You’re just not sure what you’ll do, if it becomes something else.
“Yeah,” you tell her, and Jiwoo purses her lips.
“Be careful,” she says, and you want to tell her that it’s wasted, on someone like you.
***
You’re not reckless, per se, because you wouldn’t have survived this long if you were, but you’re not averse to risk.
As a matter of fact, you chase that thrill, that feeling of being on the precipice and not knowing which way the dice falls, that moment when the coin is in the air and you’re holding your breath.
You’re well aware of the danger, you know the odds - and you jump in anyway.
It explains a lot about you, your history of impulsive choices, the decision to come to Australia alone, the time you’ve spent flying solo in the casinos and bars.
It explains why you’re going on a trip to a small town in New South Wales with a man you’ve only known for a week or so, one you'll admit you find very attractive.
And it’s not going to just be a day trip. You’re spending the night together in a small cottage you found on Airbnb, because, in Chris’ words, there are few things better than stargazing in the Australian bush.
He picks you up, about a week after Bondi, pulling over in front of the hostel that’s been your home base for the last week or so. You’d met up once, having brunch at a small cafe in Darlinghurst, to hash out the details for the trip.
His car is decent - a standard Toyota Corolla, comfortable but nothing special - and you slide into the passenger seat after tossing your overnight bag into the back.
“Breakfast?” he asks, easing back into traffic once your seatbelt is secured, and you shrug.
“What are you feeling?”
“Well,” he says, lightly, “there’s always the time-honoured road trip food of choice.”
The drive to Gerroa is about an hour and a half - not that long, considering how big Australia is - but a road trip is a road trip.
“Maccas?” you offer, because six months is enough time for you to pick up some of the slang, and Chris grins.
“You got it.”
“Let’s go then,” you say, plugging in your phone to the aux cord that’s just dangling from the console, and Chris laughs when Linkin Park starts blaring from his car speakers.
You stop at a drive-through McDonald’s, and it’s not long before you’re out of Sydney city proper and on the highway, heading towards Gerroa.
“What are Han and Changbin up to, while you’re with me?” you ask, unwrapping Chris’ breakfast muffin for him, and he accepts it with a little sidewards glance at you, gaze otherwise focused on the road.
“Jisung’s hanging out with some friends from Malaysia who moved here for school, and Changbin said something about enjoying the quiet - think he might just bum around and work on some new music.”
“That’s nice,” you tell him, and then you start on your own breakfast.
Chris is a decent driver, if a little eager to step on the accelerator, which is about par for the course for most twenty-somethings behind the wheel. It’s an easy drive, just straight roads and the Australian wilderness all around you.
“Do you drive?” he asks, and you snort.
“I have my licence,” you say, “but I haven’t driven in years - I live in the city, public transportation solves all my problems.”
“Fair,” he answers, and you nibble on your hashbrown.
The atmosphere in the car isn't awkward at all. After spending time together on the walk, and having brunch, and all the texts sent back-and-forth, now that he has your contact on Telegram, you feel like you know Chris, to some extent.
It’s just easy to exist in the same space as him, as he drives the two of you through New South Wales, making small talk about your lives.
He tells you more about his friends in Korea - their group chat is jokingly named ‘Stray Kids’ because they’re all such different people with different lives, a motley crew of strays that Chris found and folded into his friend group. In turn, you share what you did in college, about the brief career you cut short by deciding to spend a year in the land down under.
“I’d say you were crazy to give it up,” he admits, “but I’m sure you had your reasons.”
You smile wryly, because it’s both close to and yet far from the truth, and the GPS on Chris’ phone beeps to let you know that you’re near the Airbnb you booked.
“We’re almost there,” he says, “excited?”
You look out the window, at the coastline visible through the bush, the expanse of blue sea and sky.
“Yes,” you say, “I am.”
***
Gerroa is lovely.
It’s a small town, idyllic, home to a small and transient population, mostly retirees and people obsessed enough with surfing to want to live permanently near the ocean.
The Airbnb you’re renting is a small one-storey home, with two bedrooms and a living room that looks out at the ocean. The beach is a short drive away, and there’s a corner store selling basic necessities a few minutes down the road.
The two of you are sitting at the small kitchen table, eating fish and chips purchased from a random shop in town for lunch.
“We should pick up some things for dinner from the corner store,” Chris suggests, “maybe after the beach?”
“Yeah, sure,” you reply, “they’ve got a grill here, we can do a barbecue or something.”
“I like the way you think,” he says, and you laugh.
It’s a comfortable setting. You have your feet propped up on one of the extra chairs, and Chris hooked up his phone to a bluetooth speaker he’d had in his duffel, which is now piping some cheerful Korean pop song into the air.
Across from you, Chris is looking at his phone, brow furrowed in concentration, and you settle back in your seat.
It feels cozy, in a way that should set you on edge, but Gerroa is lovely, and it’s idyllic, and the warning bells begging for attention in your brain can wait a few days.
“We got lucky, it’s warm enough for a swim,” he says, showing you the weather forecast, and you smile.
“That’s exactly what I’m here for,” you tell him, and he laughs.
You clean up the remnants of lunch, throw together what you’ll need for the beach, and hop back into the car for the short drive down to the water. Chris parks at the edge of the beach, and the two of you haul your blankets, snacks and other junk down to the shore.
Seven Mile Beach is completely different from Bondi, and from the other beaches you’ve seen so far in Australia - it’s a nature reserve, and it’s like an isolated slice of paradise, a huge expanse of sand and sea. The horizon stretches out forever, and it takes your breath away.
The air smells different, and you take a moment to soak it in, inhaling deeply.
“Pretty, eh?” Chris asks, and you smile.
“It’s great.”
You lay out the blanket bundled in your arms under the shade of a large tree, weighing it down with your haversack, and Chris does the same.
The beach isn’t crowded, but it’s by no means empty. There are some surfers out, enjoying the waves, and a few families, children playing in the water.
The sun is high in the sky, and it’s a crisp spring day - a little colder than expected, but still warm enough for a dip in the ocean.
Your love for the beach is true, which is why the moment you’ve set things up, you immediately pull out your tube of sunscreen and yank off the loose shift dress you’d been wearing over your swimsuit.
Chris makes a noise, and you turn to see him staring at your side, at the bouquet of lilies and baby’s breath inked across your ribs, following the natural curve of your body to bloom against your skin.
You’d bought this one-piece, with the low sides, for the express purpose of showing off your ink when you were at the beach.
“Forgot you hadn’t seen this one yet,” you joke lightly, and Chris shakes his head like he’s coming out of a reverie.
“It’s gorgeous,” he says, and you smile.
“Thank you.”
He peels off his own shirt - you thank whatever higher beings exist for creating a man who looks like that - and both of you busy yourselves with slathering on sunscreen. You’d gotten a pretty nasty sunburn in Cairns, where you’d learned your lesson about the value of SPF50 sunscreen, and you were taking no chances.
“Y/N, can you help me get my back?” he asks, and you acquiesce, rubbing sunscreen into broad shoulders.
Christ, even the man’s back muscles are incredibly defined.
The perfect specimen for an anatomy lesson about the human muscles right here, folks.
He returns the favour, gently sweeping your hair over one shoulder so that he doesn’t get sunscreen on you, and you enjoy the feeling.
It’s just - well, you’re alone in a foreign country, and a kind touch is hard to come by.
“All good,” he tells you, flipping the lid on the tube of sunscreen shut, “shall we?”
You look out at the ocean, brilliant and blue.
“Race you to the water,” you say, impishly, and Chris yelps as you take off, sand flying everywhere as he scrambles to beat you to the shore.
You tumble into the water, shrieking at the cold, and Chris hisses when he gets hit by a particularly large wave.
You laugh, and duck underwater, your body adjusting to the chill, and you surface, content to bob along with the waves.
Sometimes you wish you could just go with the tides.
You look over at Chris, who’s standing in the water looking like some kind of Greek god, if Greek gods wore floral-patterned boardshorts.
It’s an odd feeling.
You’ve always thought him handsome, since that first night in the club, and he’s been nothing but sweet, friendly and genuine, and -
You’ve met lots of guys, over the years, handsome and kind and everything in-between, and honestly, Chris should just be one of many.
But in the afternoon light, with the sky a bright, brilliant blue and salt in the air, he looks like he could be something different.
You let the current guide you towards him, bobbing into his line of vision.
“Having fun?” you ask, grinning, and a wave of water comes, one that should push the two of you further away.
He reaches out, and catches you by the shoulder, pulling you close.
He smiles.
“I am.”
***
It’s a good day, and a good night. After the beach, you stop by the corner store to pick up some ingredients for dinner, the two of you clean up, and you get to show off your grilling skills, honed by years of barbecues at chalets and that one part-time job you had at a yakiniku joint.
Chris cracks open a few beers, connects his phone to the speaker again, and treats you to some of 3RACHA’s greatest hits, including ones written early in their career.
Some of the lyrics are hilarious , and you say as much.
“I’m so glad you can’t understand Korean,” he tells you, “because those lyrics are even worse.”
You flip the last piece of lamb chop onto a plate.
“You’ll have to translate it for me, then.”
“You wish,” he retorts, and you laugh.
Dinner is easy, pop music in the background, and once the dirty dishes are stacked up in the sink, you find yourself sitting on the back of Chris’ car in the driveway of the Airbnb.
It’s a cool night, and you have a blanket draped over your shoulders, Chris a solid warmth next to you.
There’s a bottle of wine between the two of you, an ashtray, and a simple battery-operated lamp on the roof of the car, the only source of light.
When Chris lights his cigarette the illumination from his lighter throws his features into sharp relief.
You light your own, and lean back against the rear window, exhaling a cloud of smoke as you look up at the sky, the stars glittering like diamonds.
“You don’t get this in the city,” Chris remarks, and you smile.
“You definitely don’t.”
He takes a swig from the wine bottle, offering it to you, and you help yourself to a mouthful.
It’s a bottle of red, a little acidic, but rich on your tongue, and it somehow goes better than you expected with the tang of smoke.
“This is an experience,” you say, taking another drag, “stargazing, having a smoke, drinking some wine, and I’ve got a pretty boy for company, as the cherry on top.”
“You’re prettier than me,” Chris replies, and you laugh.
“Flatterer,” you murmur, helping yourself to more wine.
The two of you just sit in silence, listening to the soft sounds of the ocean in the background, the rustle of animals in the trees, and it’s quiet for a while.
Chris breaks it.
“Y/N, can I ask you something?”
You sit up properly, and look at him.
“What’s up?”
“Why did you come to Australia?”
The silence that ensues is like a thick blanket of cotton because - well.
For all that you and Chris have been talking, for all the stories about your life you’ve shared, every time the topic came close to the question of why , you always deflected.
You take another drag from your cigarette.
“Honestly? I don’t know,” you murmur, quietly, and it’s like a dam breaks.
You’ve never told anyone about the static in your brain, about the urge you’ve always had to be somewhere else , how you don’t quite know what you’re running from, how the place that’s supposed to be home is stifling, and how the prospect of being tied down - by a job, by your family, by obligations and responsibilities - sets you on edge.
You've never told anyone about how you always want to run .
You’ve never told anyone about this, but tonight, you tell Chris.
It takes time for you to put words to the feelings you’ve never been able to express, but Chris is patient, and at the end of it your cigarette has burnt down to nothing, and you sigh as you stub it out in the ashtray.
You feel relief, but you also feel raw.
“I had it made,” you admit, one last confession, “I had everything I could have wanted, and all I wanted was to run from it.”
Chris reaches out, taking your hand in his, and you let him, you let him lace his fingers with yours, and you look up at his eyes, bright and earnest in the dim light.
“You say you don’t know what you’re running from,” he tells you, softly, “but maybe you need to think about what you’re running to .”
You look at him, blinking slowly, and it’s only when he reaches up to cup your cheek that you realise that the sting in your eyes isn’t just from the cold.
He brushes away the tears.
“That’s not an easy question to answer,” you tell him, shakily, and he smiles.
“The important ones never are.”
You laugh, and -
It’s funny. You’ve lived twenty-five years, you’ve traveled the world, you’ve played games of all sorts and gotten into trouble, you’ve weighed the odds and made decisions in spite of them, you’ve chased the thrill.
You’ve run, run from something you cannot place, you’re running towards something you don’t have the words for.
You’ve lived with the static in your brain, with your self-preservation instinct at war with your reckless desire to run, at war with the wishfulness and hope and daydreams -
You’ve lived on the edge, but maybe it’s time to think about something else.
Fortune, after all, favours the bold.
You look at Chris, and you lean in.
So does he, and your lips meet, the kiss soft and chaste and slow.
He pulls back.
“Okay?” he asks, and your fingers are still entwined, and you smile.
“Okay.”
He kisses you again.
***
Sydney’s supposed to just be another city, another keychain to add to your collection and another bus ticket tucked into your notebook, another addition to the list of places you’ve run to.
But maybe Sydney’s a catalyst, a start of something different.
That’s what you think, a few days later, when you step out of the contemporary art museum and see Chris waiting for you, standing by the water as he smokes.
The harbour stretches out behind him.
You run down the stairs.
“Chris!”
He turns, and God, he’s gorgeous, his grin genuine and bright, the setting sun behind him like some kind of halo.
He holds out his hand to you, and you’ll never be over how perfectly your fingers fit together.
“Ready to go?” he asks, and you smile.
“Let’s go.”
***