Work Text:
1)
From afar, I get to watch every group with more than four or five members fall into unofficial sub-units no matter how close they all were. But somehow it still shocks me when it happens to us. Whenever our managers let us loose in any unstructured place, without fail, all nine of us will break down into duos or trios. Gwangkyun and Heechan, forever attached at the hip—a perfect circuit, corresponding puzzle pieces, twin stars, soulmates, whatever you wanted to call them—would split off without even noticing the absence of the others. Harry June would inevitably be trailed by both Dongil and Changmin because he needed at least two pairs of eyes on him at all times or he would become a danger to himself and others in the pursuit of a good time. Seongsik tended to float around easily or keep to himself. Which left me and Sungmin and Yuku.
It is a quiet and slow but inevitable process that brings me and Sungmin and Yuku together. Sungmin almost becomes like Seongsik, floating around aimlessly, being welcomed with open arms and leaving without fuss. But his energy comes in unpredictable bursts and he likes having a predictable place to rest. And Yuku likes spending time with all of us but me and Sungmin talk less and talk slower than most of the other members so Yuku can actually understand and be a part of every conversation we have. So we all become a quiet, odd trio.
When our managers let us loose in some out-of-use school gymnasium to have fun (and produce content), we only manage to play a game as a whole group for less than ten minutes. Then Changmin gets too frustrated for it to be cute and Sungmin gets tired and—like there is some invisible tether between me and Sungmin—I follow him out of the game easily. Yuku does something impressive and then dips while he’s still on top. And our little trio is reunited against the padded wall of the gym, Sungmin in his favorite position, with as much of his weight as possible resting on me. I start making up “choose one” questions because they’d been popular in interviews and it was hard to make those clever or funny or interesting.
Sungmin is too low-energy to make even interesting responses seem interesting, replying in a slow and low tone more at home at a sleepover than a variety show. And Yuku rolls the options around in his brain for so long you’d think he was actually signing a contract binding him to his choice. We are never the loudest or most eye-catching trio on camera anyway. Yuku’s pure, uncut cuteness was only enjoyable on camera for so long and while hosts and reporters were often drawn in by Sungmin’s beauty, they’d drift off to Harry June or Dongil after a comment or two. But Yuku starts really getting into it and adding his own questions and I just don’t have the heart to not answer.
“Would you rather drink just water for the rest of your life or eat only rice?” Yuku asks in the excited, breathless whisper that he dips into when he knows he’s doing well at something.
It’s an easy, practical question. Only drinking water would be good for my health. Only eating rice would give me nutritional deficiencies. So I plan to shift the question off to Sungmin to get something more out of it. But he can’t answer. He’s asleep.
It’s not unusual for Sungmin to be asleep, it seems to be one of his favorite hobbies at this point. But he’s isn’t just asleep. He’s asleep on me. He’s curled into a neat, little ball. His arms curled up into his chest. His legs folded over each other and resting lightly on my thigh. His eyelashes curved into perfect, peaceful crescent moons on his face. It’s just all different this close—his face arranged exactly how god intended, peaceful and stunning. His face is tucked into my neck, his head resting gently on my shoulder.
It’s the vulnerability, the intimacy, the fact that this is probably the closest I’ll ever get in my life to cuddling with Sungmin (but I am trying not to think about that). He doesn’t have any sly smiles or clever remarks for me. With his slack, open face I can’t tell if I am simply and unwitting witness to his beauty or if I am precisely the intended audience. Either way, it knocks the breath out of me. It’s like the whole world just fades away. We’re not in some out-of-season gymnasium. There are no managers or cameras. The other members aren’t playing basketball across the room from us. Yuku has even disappeared from my side despite sitting nearly as closely as Sungmin.
“Is Sungmin asleep?” Yuku is still close enough that I can feel his breath on my neck when he speaks. He’s leaning over me, peeking at Sungmin. When I go to look at him to answer he has this look on his face. Something deep and curious and frustrated in his eyes that he gets when he understands more than he has the ability to articulate. But I have no idea what could be so complex here that Yuku doesn’t have the words for.
“I think so.”
He hums agreeably. “I’ll be quiet then.”
“I don’t think it matters. He can sleep through everything else.” But my voice has already dropped to a low, steady whisper too.
“Hey,” Yuku places his hand on my shoulder—nearly hovering over it—a gentle offering at most. “Would you rather have to carry around me for the whole day or Sungmin?”
I don’t even look at him. And later when this scene replays in my head I feel awful for it. But I simply cannot look anywhere that isn’t Sungmin’s peaceful face, his relaxed posture—all of it seeming to imply how comfortable he is around me. “It doesn’t matter.” I answer after a heartbeat too long. “You guys are probably about the same.” And in terms of weight? Probably nearly identical. And I like spending time with both of them. But the idea of holding Sungmin close for a whole day? It tugs at my heart in a way I don’t anticipate.
I brush some of Sungmin’s fringe out of his face—my hand so gentle and careful I might as well be handling china—and Yuku doesn’t press me for a better answer. But maybe I didn’t need to say anything at all for him to know.
2)
Sungmin’s gorgeous, of course. It’s undeniable. It’s an objective fact. We spend our entire careers watching hosts and interviewers hovering around Sungmin until someone else yells loud enough or does something ridiculous enough to break the spell. Every fanmeet we hear stories from our fans about how they only stopped to look at us because Sungmin was too stunning to look away from. In the loud, neon rainbow that was DKB, Sungmin was a stunning, light, calm lilac. He was so fundamentally different from the rest of us I sometimes had trouble wrapping my brain around the fact that he was one of us. But he was also so fundamentally integral to the group. Sure Harry June or Heechan were handsome—could easily fill the role of a visual—but Sungmin was beautiful, without qualifications.
He was the kind of beauty that changed things. That shaped his whole life. That made him almost a different breed altogether. And maybe I spend too much time thinking about Sungmin’s beauty—objectively, subjectively and every kind of “jectively” in between. It’s just such an important part of our success and I’m always thinking about that next step, going higher. But sometimes it’s not about the group. Sometimes it’s just about him. Sometimes I’m under his spell as bad as (probably worse than) those hosts that hover around Sungmin at the beginning of every show. It’s unavoidable. Something we all joke about sometimes—how we were so stunned or impressed with Sungmin’s looks at one point or another. I just don’t think I ever stopped. I don’t think anyone had it as bad as me.
It’s not news that all my clothes fit the other members too. It’s no longer shocking to me when I buy new clothes and they end up on someone else. So when I get back to the dorms and drop my gym bag on the couch next to some formless mass in a familiar t-shirt, I’m resigned more than I’m annoyed. I tap at the mass of blankets and pillows sternly. “That’s my shirt you know.” It could really be anyone wrapped up in a little nest, napping on the couch but it’s more likely to be someone in particular. I just don’t put two and two together until he shifts.
Sungmin emerges from the blankets like a contented cat waking up from a nice nap. Like a fairy emerging from flower petals. Like unwrapping a present. “I know,” he answers, lazy Cheshire cat smile directed at me, “it’s comfy.”
I’m stuck hovering over the arm of the couch, wanting to be closer and also wanting to be back at the gym just as much. “If you guys keep stealing my clothes I won’t have any left.” It is a weak admonishment if it is one at all.
“Well, maybe if our leaders weren’t so bite-sized than someone else could bear that burden.” He laughs. But it’d be just as easy for slight, little Sungmin to slip into anyone else’s clothes. He wasn’t relegated to mine.
“You could still fit into their clothes.”
He pouts cutely, like his whole face was meant for this. Like his whole being was created for the sole purpose of being loved and adored. “But I like yours the best.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t wear them.” I brush off easily because I’m getting too close. It’s getting too dangerous. I will die on this hill. I will walk willingly, happily into this little trap. I will throw my whole body into the flames.
“I’ll give them back.” He holds his hand up to me as some sort of gesture of promise. “There’s no point once they don’t smell like you anymore anyway.”
And it’s just another remark to toss alongside all the other things Sungmin has said to me to make my heart stutter and falter in its rhythm. Another thing he’s done with me that he doesn’t do with anyone else (not even Yuku). Another thing he’s said that implies that I’m special—that I’m different from the other members—to him. Another thing that makes me feel like my pathetic weakness for Sungmin was written all over my face. Like it’s the only thing he can find to really tease me about. But, god, even if it’s all fake, I still drink it up like I’m dying of thirst. Even if it’s all artificial sweetness, it’s the only time I’ll be able to taste it. “Maybe if you only take one at a time, we can work something out.”
His outstretched hand catches my skin, just brushing against my cheek. Because even if I want to push my face into his hand like some desperate animal, I’m nothing if not disciplined and determined. He looks like he has some half-formed words on his mind, on his lips. But I’m pulling away before I drown in it. Pulling away before the curious, frustrated, baffled little crease between his eyebrows gets burned into the image of him cozy and soft in my clothes.
My heart still pounds like crazy in the shower. In the kitchen. In my bunk. So loud and crazy and irregular that I think it will wake up my roommates. I can’t get the image of Sungmin in my shirt out of my head. I can’t stop thinking about American teen dramas—the female lead wearing the letter jacket of her boyfriend, his hoodie, his jersey. I don’t have a letter jacket. And me and Sungmin never even went to the same school. But I can say for sure that I am not the quarterback to his head cheerleader. He was out of my league. He just needed to be adored. And I was an easy target.
3)
We all think it’ll be a totally harmless, cute, fun little prank for me to pick up the chair Dongil is sitting in and pretend it’s a rollercoaster ride. It is cute and fun and we put it up on our tiktok or twitter or something for the fans. I just don’t realize anyone else is really paying attention.
We’re working on choreo for some American pop song in the evening. Harry June and Dongil got into some petty argument about some tiny detail in the choreo (that won’t even be ours really, that we won’t promote or anything) and we all gave up on getting anywhere. Those two rarely ever seriously fought but they sure did get out all their lingering aggression towards each other in stupid arguments about formation or the position of our hands during choreo. And it was pointless to try to make them make up, Dongil wouldn’t listen to any of us which meant that Harry June also wouldn’t listen to any of us. And our manager had gone to pick up dinner for all of us so it was just a waiting game until he got back.
Sungmin initially wants to show me some video he found but the tablet is dead and by the time we find the charger, he doesn’t remember what the video was. So we assume the familiar position of sitting against the wall with as much of Sungmin’s body leaning on me as he can manage. The only thing missing is Yuku on my other side. Sungmin is tired and sweaty like the rest but he somehow manages to pull that off too—looking like he just emerged from a dewy flower in some picturesque forest.
For some, unknown reason Harry June has moved on to trying to prove that he can pick up Dongil (he probably could if it wasn’t just after practice and right before dinner) and I have no idea what that has to do with the choreo.
“Was it hard?” Sungmin suddenly asks.
“What?”
“Picking up Dongil.” He clarifies.
“Nah,” I brush off easily, “the chair was probably heavier than him.”
“You’re bluffing.” He laughs and I wonder if he thinks all my bulk is just for show.
“I could probably pick everyone here up. No problem.” My friendship with Sungmin was usually not like this. Usually I only got into stupid pissing contests with Harry June but there is something about showing off my strength to him that I cannot ignore.
“Then you could pick me up too?” There is something in his eyes—a fire but not one lit by competition. Instead it ends up a twinkling, shining spark and I’m not sure what it means.
“Well…yeah.” That’s not even a bluff. Sungmin was probably the lightest of all of us (or at least it was some weird threeway tie between him, Yuku and Harry June). I was constantly surprised with all the strength he managed to pack into a body that seemed entirely designed for aesthetics and not practical use. But that strength didn’t add any weight to him.
“C’mon then.” He goads.
And I pull him up from where he’s sitting just to test things out. He’s just as light as I remember and I probably pull too hard all things considered. “Well?” I offer my back to him. “Get on.”
He hops on easily but his whole body stays tensed—like he’s still midair—for a little bit. And with him on my back, his legs ever so slightly curled around my waist, I can feel every one of those tensed muscles. And I can feel it as, one by one, they start to relax against me. And in that moment, I realize that it’s Sungmin trusting I won’t drop him. He trusts me. Fully. Easily. And it feels like my heart has to grow in my chest to accommodate all the affection I’m feeling.
I wait until he’s fully settled to shift him to the best position and then spin him a little. His fingers curl into the collar of my shirt but he starts laughing too—a precious, surprised little giggle. It’s only one or two turns before we’re both laughing louder than the argument Dongil and Harry June are having. We’re all used to pairs and trios playing around and laughing, split from the rest of the group. We’re all kids at heart. But it’s never me and Sungmin. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him giggle like this—light, airy, carefree.
He hops off my back the second I stop spinning, dizzy and weak-kneed and stumbling like a fawn. His face is flushed, his hair all in his eyes. “Princess style!” He exclaims. “Do princess style next.”
And, god, it’s impossible to turn down a request like that. It’s just as easy to carry him in my arms as it was on my back—less a test of my strength and more like carrying groceries home. But having his face so close this time. That was different. That was a challenge. He looks overjoyed—like Harry June that one time we told him we were going to the beach as trainees. So I spin him again because I can’t really find a safer way to get out all of the affection, all of the giddiness in my body while holding him like this.
He lets his hand rest delicately against my chest when I take a second to breathe. “God,” he murmurs, “imagine how good we’d look for We Got Married or something.” It’s hard not to follow the line of his eyes to the reflection of both of us in the mirrored wall on the other side of the practice room. He looks beautiful, akin to a blushing bride. I look like the shock factor that makes the couple good for TV. I look like the “husband” they bring on just to shock the audience whenever I manage something romantic.
I manage to set Sungmin down gently even though it feels like I’m crashing through the atmosphere back to earth. “They don’t do it with idols anymore.”
He looks at me curiously like he’s noticed the shift in the atmosphere but has no idea why it happened. But before he can place anything, our manager gets back and tells us that dinner is waiting in the cafeteria.
Sungmin stays close to me, tentatively grabbing my hand as we all file out to the cafeteria. “Maybe it would be better without the cameras anyway.” He chirps hopefully.
I just snort at him but I don’t try to shake off his hand. Probably, I think to myself, it’d be better without the cameras because that way no one would have to see it.
But even If all I was ever offered was a chance to be Sungmin’s little secret—someone he turned to when the crushing loneliness of being a touch-starved idol became too much for him. Even if that was all that was on the table. I didn’t trust myself to turn away.
4)
Once we start to prove ourselves, our stylists decide that Sungmin should grow out his hair. Objectively—and, unfortunately, subjectively—I think it’s something we should’ve done a long time ago. There’s a certain portion of fans who will follow long hair no matter what idol it is on. But it’s not until after debut that the stylists fully commit to Sungmin growing out his hair. It’s not especially long, only just past his ears. Just long enough to tie it up into an endearing, little half-ponytail.
It doesn’t have to be feminine. But it is. When it gets long enough to really style, it’s always swept up into something delicate—soft, little tendrils hanging in his face. And the color leaves him looking like he’s the leading lady in a movie adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. And then it leaks out into more than his hair. The clothes picked out for him were always more feminine (though I couldn’t place my finger on exactly how that was, some things were tighter and some more flowy but overall they all lost the edge the rest of ours’ had). His makeup was bolder. Suddenly every necklace, bracelet and earring put on him was thinner, slighter and more delicate.
If Sungmin’s looks gained us the favor of fans and reporters before, now other idols were stopping to look at him in the halls of music shows. I don’t have a favorite Sungmin (or at least, if I do, it’s not this one). But I can’t deny the change in attention. He pulls off everything. The more outlandish and couture and magazine-photoshoot our stylists get with Sungmin, the better he looks.
We’re between a performance for a music show and a video with some youtuber and our stylists have gone full vampire with Sungmin. His hair is slicked back and he’s got an intricate all-black outfit (far more interesting than any of the rest of our outfits) that’s too-tight with delicate silver chains hanging loosely across his body. The rest of us look more or less like backup dancers from a Jay Park music video but Sungmin looks like the star of a VIXX one. But it’s really the fucking makeup that sells it. Bold, pinkish-red eyeshadow clouds around his eyes. And he gets a darker, more obvious, pinkish-red lip tint from the rest of us.
I get the goth, vampire look that was envisioned for him. But, if I’m being honest with myself, the eyeshadow makes it look like he’s allergic to something or has pink eye. But the worst part of that is, even with pink eye makeup, he’s still the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. He still makes me hold my breath when he climbs into the backseat of the van with me and leans his perfectly manicured head onto my shoulder. He still pulls it off.
The van is loud on the ride over even if it’s like the third event we’re going to today. Gwangkyun sparks back up the old “do aliens exist or not” debate and is getting into it fiercely with Changmin. Heechan is backing Gwangkyun up for some reason. He’s already admitted to all of us that he believes in aliens but there’s something about those two being within such close proximity of each other that just links their brains up. Sungmin is quiet, nodding off on my shoulder like normal. He believes in aliens in some abstract, untouchable way and is rarely very passionate when we all get into this debate again. (Which might be why, sometimes, I have dreams that Sungmin is secretly an alien, like that would explain everything.)
It’s past sunset already and the back of the van is only barely lit up by passing streetlights. It would be dreamy if it wasn’t such a painfully familiar sight—quiet and seemingly secluded from the noise up front. So it’s almost startling when Sungmin tugs at the sleeve of my jacket and gently calls my name.
“I thought you were asleep.” I answer in the same hushed tone.
“How’s my makeup?” He asks and the words kinda blend together. He seems still, at least, half-asleep.
“What?” I laugh.
“Heechan lost my mirror.” He responds, reaching to rub at his eyes. “How’s my makeup?”
I stop his hand before it gets to his face and smudges his makeup worse. “It’s a little messy. Nothing too bad.” There is something about the slight smudging that makes him look more like a vampire. That fits the mood of his look even better.
“Will you help me fix it?” He asks and it seems like he has finally, fully woken up.
“Me?” I hope it doesn’t actually come out like the squeak I hear in my head.
“Yeah, our stylist is off for the night and I know mine will look really bad if it gets messed up.”
“I don’t know anything about makeup.” I try to back myself out of the situation as quickly as possible (and, probably as gracelessly as possible too).
“You can do my lip tint at least. It’s easy.” He reassures, pressing the tube firmly into his hands. I feel the cold-burn where each of his rings touched my skin well after he’s taken his hands back.
I unsurely twist the cap off. It’s bright. And it stains. And if I mess this up, they might just take Sungmin out of the video altogether. Or I could ruin the clothes I’m sure are on rent from our stylists. But, somehow, getting that close to Sungmin’s mouth still seems like the most dangerous thing happening here.
“Just tap it on my lips and blot it with your finger.” He instructs me, lips pouted cartoonishly. Even if I did try to kiss him now, it would be a parody more than a kiss.
I try to just tap it on his lips but my hand is unsteady and I learn that I can’t do anything to his face without placing my hand on his chin to keep both of us steady first. I can tell he is trying to be still too but his delicate, slight, little body trembles with the energy of a hummingbird. “Is that right?” I ask, just to postpone actually touching his lips if nothing else.
He looks torn, trying to communicate without his face. He ends up with an awkward thumbs up to let me know I’m doing fine. The air is heavy and the tension is thick. But it’s not heady and weighty the way I thought it would be. It’s not an intense act of self-control to keep my hands away from him and my words in my mouth. It’s the tension of butterfly wings. It’s the tension of a prey animal in fight-or-flight. It is the tension of guarded hope between us with my finger on his lips.
“How does it look?” He asks me as I hand him the lip tint back with barely shaky hands. (Is it my own nerves or the pressure of the entire universe bearing down on me, begging me to make a move, a decision, a choice? I don’t know.)
I don’t think what I’ve done has made much of a difference, if that’s what he’s asking. But, in the dim, yellow lighting in the backseat of the van, he looks gorgeous. He looks like an angel in the truest sense—ethereal, awe-inspiring and beyond my comprehension. “I can’t really tell. It’s too dark.” I answer instead. “Why didn’t you just wait til we got back to the company?”
He shrugs and won’t meet my eyes, at least not for more than a fraction of a second at a time. “I wanted you to do it.”
The sounds of the radio and our managers chatting aimlessly and the rest of the members still arguing about aliens gets drowned out by the pounding, rushing sound of my own blood running through my body. But I still have to know. “Why me?”
His tongue peeks out of his mouth and he audibly swallows and I think maybe he won’t answer. Even if he doesn’t, I doubt I have it in me to press any further. But after Harry June delivers what he probably thinks is a sick burn and hypes himself up, Sungmin finally answers. “Because I like it best when it’s you.” It’s soft and quiet. Unsure. Meant for my ears only. It’s a cat rolling over to show their vulnerable, soft, untouched stomach to you.
I just can’t tell if it’s true vulnerability or a joke. Just something to amuse him when I stick my hand in the trap and get claws in my skin as a reward. I can’t tell if Sungmin is the pretty little actor every director wants from him. Or if he’s just a face that pretty that would still choose me in the end. I don’t have the opportunity to figure it out either.
The van stops and one of our mangers says something like, “I would tell you guys to keep the tension up but looks like I don’t have to.” But he might as well be speaking Greek for all I parse out of it. And then Dongil, probably just to spite our manager screams, “DKB tension up!” And all of us respond eagerly with, “tension up!” And if two of the voices in the chant are small and unsure. If two of us linger in the back of the van, unsure of what comes next. Well…no one says anything about it.
5)
There isn’t a good time to talk about it so there isn’t a good time to acknowledge it either. I should. We should. But we have videos to film and then Sungmin has to shoot that commercial he landed. So it just sits there. And the longer it sits there, the easier it is to convince myself that this isn’t special. Of course I’m Sungmin’s favorite—his favorite source of attention, his favorite human pillow, his favorite admiring sunflower. I offer the things he likes. And if Seongsik offered the same things, he’d be Sungmin’s favorite. This didn’t change anything. This wasn’t a confession.
It’s easy to move on—just push it down and not think about it. It only gets easier with time. I go to the gym and eat lunch with Harry June the first slow afternoon we encounter. So when everyone else wants to go out for dinner with our manager I’m not interested. Harry June is, though, because he is a growing boy and a bottomless pit for food. And I’m more interested in staying in the dorms alone and getting a monopoly on our singular, shared cell phone to talk with my family. I have not breathed a word about the ways Sungmin is different to me, not even to my sister (who is already fully over having an idol for a brother and no longer starstruck by anything I have to tell her). There’s nothing to say. Nothing I want to put into words anyway. (“I am pathetically and hopelessly devoted to the prettiest person I’ve ever seen like some no-name background character pining after the most popular girl in school”? No.) But there are plenty of other things to say.
Before Dongil leaves he promises to bring me home leftovers and makes an exaggerated, wet kissing noise at me. My sister manages to make fun of my for that for about ten minutes straight. It’d be mildly impressive if it was the first time she’d done something like that. I don’t know how long I’m on the phone but by the time I hang up, the dorms are still eerily quiet. There is something enticing about sprawling out in the living room alone though.
The living room is not empty. There’s a carefully-precarious nest of blankets and pillows that only Sungmin creates on the sofa. And there he is—soft, clean and comfortable in a T-shirt he pilfered from me—in the middle of everything. “Didn’t you go to dinner?”
“Nah,” he nearly yawns, stretching out on the sofa.
“Why not?” There is such a natural draw to settling down next to him, like he is always leaving a spot reserved just for me in every inch of his body language.
“Too lazy.” He tosses out easily. “Plus Dongil promised leftovers. Why didn’t you go?”
“Already went out with Harry June earlier.”
“Hmm.” He hums out. “Watch a movie with me then?” The whole scene is disgustingly domestic. Even though we are talking about why we are alone and this is not our every day. It is so, so, so easy to imagine that this is our 5th or 10th or 60th year of marriage, discussing our days and settling in for our regular movie night. I have a lot of practice not falling for it though.
This time my practice means nothing and I nestle into the empty space on the couch he leaves for me. “What are we watching?”
He fiddles with the remote, waking the TV back up. “Some new romcom with Park Bogum.”
I don’t keep up with movies or dramas like some of the other members so I don’t know what movie he’s talking about. But it’s never been about the movie. “Okay.”
He easily moulds his whole body around my presence. His head on my shoulder. His knees knocking into mine. His hand resting easily on my thigh. With the new position I realize that there’s a splash of purple on Sungmin that’s not the print on a blanket or the corner of a pillow. It’s a light purple ribbon, the kind you’d find on a professionally-wrapped present. It’s that weird plastic-fabric mix and held on by a thin, metal wire.
“What’s up with the ribbon?” I nudge him.
If I didn’t know before, the way that he so readily turns his attention to me confirms that this was never really about the movie. “Yuku’s family sent him a little care package and he put the ribbon on me.” He shrugs.
“Doesn’t it hurt?” I ask, eyeing the way the metal wire digs into his wrist.
“Nah,” he twists the ribbon on his wrist, “I kinda forgot about it honestly.”
I lean over easily and unwind the wire on his wrist. It leaves behind a thin, red band that looks like any number of bracelets the stylists always put on him.
He shakes his wrist out with a shy smile. “Maybe it was a little tight.”
“It looks good on you, though.”
“Then you should get me one meant for people, not presents.”
“But you are a present.” I say before it gets to my brain for approval.
“Why’d I even bother putting on a romcom when I have you around?” He rolls his eyes fondly.
I still have the ribbon in my hands and I unbend the wire to make the biggest semi-circle I can. And I reach out with tentative, unsure hands to place the ribbon on his head instead.
“Does that look better?” He teases. And he’s so pretty in the dim lighting—like he was made too beautiful to look at too closely. And he might as well be throwing himself at me with the parted lips and sparkling eyes—taking every move I make as an invitation to move closer. (Every move I make around him is always an invitation to move closer even if it’s the worst thing I could possibly do to myself.)
We aren’t touching yet. (But we are touching. His hand on my thigh. Our sides touching all the way from our shoulders down to our knees. The way my pinkie is still skimming against the shell of his ear.) But I don’t see anywhere for this to go other than him ending up in my arms, between my fingers, on my lips. He tilts his head to align with mine.
And this is it. (This is one of the many “it”s that Sungmin has drug my through. Falling in love. Falling out of love. Succumbing to fear. Make a move. Make a move. Make a move.) The whole universe is begging me to kiss him. He is begging me to kiss him. Even the score of the movie is chanting kiss him, kiss him, kiss him.
But I am the only one here who has ever thought about what comes after this. I am always swallowing the bubbling desire to kiss Sungmin. I never get to walk away and forget. So I know what happens later. I know that this could never just be a kiss. I drowned in the inevitable jealousy. The fated heartbreak. The dissolution. This could never have just been fun and games. And everything that Sungmin has ever participated in has just been fun and games. So I’m the only one who can stop it here while it’s still stoppable.
I let my hand drop from his face and scramble off the couch. “I’m going to take a shower.” I blurt out. I already took a shower but I have no other reason to escape. I don’t even bolt into the bathroom. I shut myself up in the wrong bedroom and hope that if I bury my head far enough into the sand, everything will just disappear. I can’t recall Sungmin’s face, I didn’t stop to look while I was running away. But my brain helpfully supplies plenty of concerned, baffled, disappointed and hurt expressions that he could have been wearing. I stay there until I hear the others come home and the dorm lights back up with light and noise.
I just hope that I’ve put all this to bed. For good this time.
+1)
The true ending comes in the form of a letter. It is an honest-to-god letter. Handwritten. In an envelope. It shouldn’t be so surprising, we all share one cellphone after all. But it’s still shocking. It’s still the first letter I’ve gotten like this. It’s stuck to the door of my shared room with a little bee sticker. And it’s got my name on it in purple ink. I know who it’s from without even opening it. It’s Sungmin’s loose, looping lazy handwriting over my name—connecting as many letters as he can. It’s Sungmin’s signature scent lingering in the air—fresh lavender against an ocean breeze. The flap of the envelope is left unsealed when I lift it from the door.
Junseo ♥,
I’ve been trying to confess to you for weeks now and not getting an answer is getting really old. Yuku thinks you’re either truly, unbelievably dense or just not into it. But I really don’t think you’re not into it. I was there. I’ve seen you. So I’m making this as obvious and straight-forward as I possibly can. This is a love letter. I like wearing your clothes because they’re your clothes. I want to share a bed with you. I want to sit in your lap all the time. I want to kiss you. I don’t know what “I like it best when it’s you” could mean other than “I am utterly in love and infatuated with you” but I guess you didn’t take it that way. So—I am utterly in love and infatuated with you. Please say something back this time.
Love, Sungmin
I expect the “I love wearing your clothes.” I even expect the “please kiss me.” I expect excessive affection and physical want. I don’t expect “I’m utterly in love and infatuated with you.” I never expect that. But it’s the last sentence, the quiet hesitation in “please say something back this time.” It is, once again, the tension of guarded hope between us.
I crack the door open to set my stuff down before going to find Sungmin. But there he is, on his own bed. “Why’d you leave the letter on the door if you were in here?”
He shoves his face into his pillow with a groan. “I didn’t know where else to go.” He answers without lifting his head.
“Why’d you bother with the letter at all then?” I ask, squishing myself into the sparse free space on his bunkbed.
“It’s harder to chicken out in a letter.” He lifts his head from the pillow to glance at me. “So, are you gonna answer this time?”
I don’t really have a choice. Even if the desire to run away settled into my stomach, there was nowhere else for me to go. And it couldn’t be the same fear anymore. I wasn’t the only one in love here. “I guess I can’t really run away this time.”
He flips over onto his back, abandoning his pillow hiding-spot. “So you were running away before?”
“Yeah,” I breathe out, low and a little bit ashamed, “I was running away. I’m not that dense and I’m not against this. I was just scared.”
“Scared? What could you possibly be scared of? I was practically throwing myself at you.” He turns his head to face the wall instead of me. “Unless you were scared of me?”
“I’m not scared of you.” I reassure him. “I was afraid of how much I like you. I thought this was just fun and games for you and I was already in too deep.” I tuck my tongue behind my teeth for a quiet moment. “But this isn’t just for fun, huh?”
“Right,” he smiles at me, his eyes sparkling, “there will be absolutely no fun in this relationship. Ever. You have my word.”
I flop over so I’m half-laying on him for once. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“If I just wanted to fool around, I’d shoot my shot with some pretty trainee and be done with it when he quits the company.” He brushes my bangs away from my face. “But you’re going to be here all the time and that’s exactly how I like you.”
I look up expectantly. I’m not sure what I’m expecting exactly but I know that expectation is written all over my face.
“What more do you want from me.” He whines. “I gave you a love letter!”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I think I just like hearing you talk.”
“How about,” he leans into me so we’re both face-to-face and partially sitting up again, “I tell you that I’m in just as deep as you and then you finally kiss me?”
“I think that would work.” And I can’t stop my eyes from wandering down to stare at his lips.
“Perfect.” He smiles—it’s crooked and feels like it’s hung lazily on his face. Truly, the cat that got the cream. “So…I’m in just as deep as you.” He whispers, the words filling up the entirety of the space left between us.
It’s so easy to kiss him. So much easier than I ever thought. It is like riding a wave back to shore. Like falling asleep on the car ride home. Like something that is inevitable. He is warm and sweet and open. So open. Everything—every feeling, every thought, every inch of his body—unguarded and open for me. He would let me take whatever. But I’m already drowning in just this.
“We should go get ice cream.” It’s a low, sultry whisper even if the words are completely innocuous. His lips are barely off of mine and his eyes are dark and half-lidded.
“What?”
“Or lunch or whatever.” He shrugs. “We should just go out on a date.”
“Date? I thought we had an agreement about fun.” I joke.
“C’mon, I’d love to show you off.” He offers, easy, like it’d be a treat for him and a chore for me. Like I’d ever been shown off before.
And that’s all he ever had to say I guess. If he has said anything like that earlier, I would have kissed him on the spot. “Show me off?”
“Of course.” He answers. It’s so natural. Like he’s never thought about me as anything other than something worthy of being shown off. Like it’s so obvious it doesn’t even have to be said.
“Okay.” I agree just as easily.
Because there’s nothing to run away from anymore.
Because this could be something really good.