Work Text:
They couldn’t afford the luxury of falling in love. Their lives were too fast, the spotlight too bright, the lines too blurry to discern what was play and what was genuine. It was Jongho’s only regret. If he had realized sooner that he was falling for Yeosang, he would’ve committed more moments to memory as he fell.
Quiet moments that he took for granted. Simple moments that he wished he could go back and cherish the way they deserved. Moments when he’d run into Yeosang practicing vocal exercises. The way his cheeks would color the faintest shade of pink after being startled out of his single-minded focus. Moments when Yeosang would offer to stay after dance lessons to help perfect a step sequence he noticed Jongho struggling with. The way he’d wordlessly hang back after everyone else filed out of the studio. Moments when Jongho would make it his solemn duty to fluster the other, not to watch him blush but to hear that particular laugh of his.The one that started low, bounced, then lifted like the wings of a cardinal catching a breeze.
If Jongho had realized he was falling in love, he would’ve collected these moments like polaroids. As it stood, he rendered these moments in fluid pastels, memories of feeling more than concrete recollection. Cobalts and violets and ochre melting into one another. That was Yeosang—cool and majestic and warm.
Looking back, he really should’ve realized sooner. Then again, hindsight is 20/20, as they say.
“What are you thinking about?” Yeosang asked, brow arched in curiosity. It was difficult to see because of the bucket hat and face mask, but Jongho could guess his expression by tone alone. He’d gotten quite good over the last six months.
“Nothing.” It was a reflex answer, and he could imagine the way Yeosang’s lips pressed together in doubt.
Yeosang’s eyes narrowed, studying Jongho for a moment more before reaching his hand out, his fingertips peeking out just below the hem of his jacket sleeve.
Jongho took his hand, threading their fingers together and rubbing his thumb across Yeosang’s knuckles. His hand was still cold from the winter wind; the cool air inside the museum didn’t help much either. Jongho tugged the bill of his ball cap down, as Yeosang led them to another exhibit. Their stroll was relaxed, aimless, until Yeosang made a sharp turn and lengthened his stride.
They passed chatty tourists, meditative art students, nonchalant couples that didn’t have to hide their faces in public. Yeosang drew to an abrupt halt, making Jongho nearly run into his back. This section was empty and quiet enough to hear the gentle, reverent gasp that left Yeosang.
“Here it is.”
Jongho looked up. The painting was massive, several heads taller than the both of them and just as wide. It was nothing more than rectangular swathes of various shades of red, ranging from carmine to ruby to something akin to the black-red of a dead rose. Jongho had never been one for which art was anything more than something he’d observe from the outside. Something about this though stirred a resonance within him.
Maybe it was the way it enraptured Yeosang. Maybe it was the way it mirrored the way he was enraptured by Yeosang. Maybe it was the way the distinct tones were both individual and collective, the way the moments they shared both stood out and blended together.
Jongho pulled his mask down. Just as Yeosang turned to say something, Jongho tugged his mask down and pressed a kiss to his parted lips. He closed his eyes, savored the familiar taste of his cherry lip balm. It was strange. The way kissing Yeosang felt like that painting.
Yeosang squeezed Jongho’s hand, returning the affection.
Satisfied, Jongho pulled away only enough to still feel Yeosang’s breath flow into his open mouth. He brushed their noses, contemplated finding a corner to paint Yeosang’s lips the same shades of red. Instead, he pulled both their masks back up and returned his fragile focus to the piece.
When he felt Yeosang’s unfaltering gaze on his profile, he quietly admitted, “That’s what I was thinking about.”