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There is a room in the house that rarely gets used, save for the times when Donghun needs to be alone. It’s dressed in deep burgundies and burnt oranges, a stained dark oak desk to the side for when he needs it, which is rare. Some of his paintings hang for show, but dozens more sit on the floor leaning against the walls, simply because he has no other place to put them. Though it doesn’t have a bed or his clothing, Donghun considers it the room in the house that is his own. Everywhere there is his touch—his paintings, yes; also the paint supplies strewn throughout, the bolts of cloth from when he had once tried his hand at sewing, newspapers and books saved from mid-century, the tea cabinet and electric kettle in the corner.
Naturally, Donghun brings Byeongkwan here as soon as he feels it right.
Byeongkwan almost immediately examines the paintings without asking permission, which is a strange but welcome feeling. Strange, because Donghun hides these paintings here because they’re hardly his best—erratic, mostly, like his mind; splashes of color and rough application. Welcome, because interest in his art is interest in him, and Donghun wants to feel that from Byeongkwan more than anything else.
There are two chairs before the fireplace, mahogany-carved face and legs with fresh orange upholstery, with a matching side table between them. One of Donghun’s weekend projects, and he’s pleased with how he took their latent beauty and brought it to the surface. Donghun also wishes he could do this with Byeongkwan.
They sit in one of the chairs while Donghun lights the fire and serves them tea. It’s a lovely feeling for him, to be in servitude in one way or another—providing Byeongkwan warmth via the fire and the tea both. Finished, he settles into the other chair and adjusts the wool skirt around his waist. He wonders briefly what Byeongkwan thinks of his “feminine” choice in clothing—whether their definitions of non-binary overlap as much as they seem to. Byeongkwan doesn’t seem to want anything to do with gender at all, despite presenting more masc than Donghun himself. Questions, questions; all of them held back behind Donghun’s lips for fear of being too strong a waterfall.
“You’re quiet this evening,” Donghun says.
A playful smile from Byeongkwan. “So are you.”
Touche, but is it for the same reasons? Donghun thinks not.
“What are you thinking about?” Donghun asks.
Byeongkwan shrugs. It’s a few seconds more before Donghun realizes he isn’t going to get an answer. He stares at the prominent profile of their face, the large curves of their nose and lips, the slight of their eyelashes blinking more than should be comfortable.
“What?” Byeongkwan asks, shifting under Donghun’s study.
“You hide behind a certain—cultivation.” Donghun runs his fingers across the surface of the table, as if he’s parting water between them. “As a shield.”
Byeongkwan sips their tea and frowns at the floor. “I don’t always understand your metaphors.”
“That’s alright.” Donghun smiles. His tenderness for this one is so much already. Whether it’s smart or not. And isn’t it always so much more tempting, when it’s the wrong decision? “I like the opportunity to talk more.”
They draw their hand across the table, an invitation for him to speak. But they still face the fireplace instead of him, while he brings his other leg up, settling into the chair sideways in order to face them. They find it hard enough to meet his eyes in most situations; Donghun doesn’t imagine the intimacy of this quiet corner of the manor is making that any easier.
“I compare the way you and Sehyoon appear downstairs in the evenings as I’m making dinner,” Donghun says. “He is content to show up in cartoon boxers and bed hair. You, on the other hand, wander into the kitchen later. No hair out of place, no wrinkles in your clothes. You share your mind often enough, but rarely without it sounding—rehearsed.”
Byeongkwan nods, an assent perhaps to being studied. It doesn’t take much to see them, though. Not when he’s paying attention. Donghun pauses, reconsidering his effort. Not everyone finds enjoyment in being seen, as opposed to looked at.
“You think if you construct a perfect enough picture that no one will see the mess underneath.”
There’s a silence in which Byeongkwan’s perfect facade doesn’t waver, not even the slightest. An ember pops from the fire, soars out from behind the wrought-iron grate to settle onto the plush carpet. Donghun watches it to make sure it doesn’t catch fire. He watches, too, from his peripheral, for Byeongkwan to catch fire or burn out.
There is nothing. They sip from their cup again, and look out into the hallway.
“Do you understand that some people are averse to that perfection?” Should Donghun be pushing? Likely not. But he craves some kind of reaction. “Some people find it repulsive. Some people are attracted to the mess, the authenticity.”
“Some people.” Byeongkwan looks at him, and their eyes soften before they can flutter away. “Like you?”
Oh . What a sweet crack in that armor.
“I'm not uniquely of that perspective, butterfly.” Donghun wants to touch their face, their hand. “But yes, like me.”
“I’m asexual.” Byeongkwan puts their cup down and turns towards him. “I don’t know if sex is part of what you want from me, but it’s not an attraction I can feel.”
Donghun feels the smallest spark of excitement, perhaps reads too much into the movement of their body. Isn’t that the only thing he wants, in the end; to look inside someone and not have them look away, as he once did?
“I won’t lie and say I haven’t thought of it.” Donghun picks his words carefully, lying them on the ground as if they’re a path Byeongkwan might walk to be closer to him. “But it isn’t at the forefront of my mind. It isn’t why I spend time with you, and tell you about myself. It isn’t why I want to know more about you, if you’ll allow it.”
“It’s weird,” Byeongkwan muses. “I’m not used to interest in myself in general. I mean, I’ve had relationships. But your interest feels different. Deeper. Yuchan and Junhee too, in their own way, though they haven’t been as forthright about it as you have.”
“Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“Yes.”
Donghun takes his time finishing his tea, keeping his eyes away from Byeongkwan, so as to not put any more pressure on them than necessary. Uncomfortable can be a vague word, and it feels even more so now that he’s sitting in silence and contemplating the minutiae of the definition. He doesn’t think his friendship is unwelcome, but he had so been hoping for something more—
“It’s a good discomfort, I think.” Byeongkwan’s voice is low between them, like it’s a confession no one else should hear. If Donghun isn’t mistaken, Byeongkwan’s chin is tucked into their chest because they’re blushing , and it takes everything in him not to coo at them. “I like your intensity. It excites me.”
Biting his lip, Donghun chooses his next words with precision. This new opening of Byeongkwan excites him , perhaps in a way that Byeongkwan wouldn’t appreciate. But then he’s always been attracted to emotional intimacy more than anything, at least after Junhee showed him the way it was supposed to be.
“If I ever overwhelm you, I need you to let me know.”
Byeongkwan shrugs. “If you overwhelmed me, I wouldn’t be here.”
“May I hold your hand?” Donghun asks.
He lies his hand onto the table between them, to the side of their empty teacups, palm upwards. Byeongkwan looks up and into his eyes, holds eye contact for longer than they ever have before, and Donghun lets his mouth part in an easy smile. They look back down to his hand, not in fear but perhaps considering what the notion might mean. In the end, Byeongkwan places his palm on top of Donghun’s.
It’s a little sweaty and much warmer than Donghun’s. Slowly, Donghun adjusts himself in the chair to lean forward and cover Byeongkwan’s hand, holding theirs between both of his own.
“I don’t expect anything from you,” Donghun speaks softly to their entwined hands. “I want to get to know you. When and if that becomes something more—that’s between us at a future date. When and if we’re ready for that—we’ll both know it. Until then I want your mind.”
Byeongkwan’s lips quirk into a small smile, and they snort a breath through their nose. “I don’t understand why, but you’ll have to be patient with me. I’m not an open book.”
Donghun mocks a little gasp of shock, splaying his hand over his blouse. “Oh? This is brand new information.”
Byeongkwan squeezes Donghun’s hand tightly, as if in retaliation.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
◇─◇──◇─────◇──◇─◇
Butterfly, butterfly, butterfly.
Byeongkwan repeats the pet name in their head over and over as they stand against the bathroom door, pointedly avoiding the mirror in front of them. But it only comes in Donghun’s voice; sweet and deep and full of more intent than they would like.
You think if you construct a perfect enough picture that no one will see the mess underneath.
Their chest twinges, and they suddenly can’t bear the idea of being opened by Donghun, terrified of what he might find inside.