Archive of Our Own

there is simply nothing worse
than knowing how it ends;
i will come back to life
but only for you.

the calendar - panic! at the disco

Once, Jaehyun Jung was so irrevocably in love with Johnny Suh.

They were that couple that everyone knew were simply fated to be together. They knew each other since they were in diapers—their houses were right next to each other, so Johnny would see the impossibly pale boy whenever he waddled out in nothing but a baby food-stained shirt and a tattered, stuffed animal in tow. Jaehyun, whose eyes were mostly scrunched shut from photosensitivity, would then wave at him like he knew him forever, even though he just moved in the day before.

They had that sort of dynamic, like a cliché fresh out of a coming-of-age film. From primary school through the years that follow, Johnny would become Some Guy widely liked by everyone—funny, loud, clever, and statuesque even before puberty hit him like a truck. On the other hand, Jaehyun would grow up to be more earnest and reserved, an inevitable subject to his peers’ teasing because kids are devious like that, but since he was Johnny’s best friend, they knew better and left him alone. 

Afternoons would be spent at each other’s house: sometimes playing video games in the living room, sometimes listening to mixtapes they made for each other in their rooms, sometimes passing each other notes concealed in paper planes through the open window, and the one night Johnny snuck his dad’s prized brandy up on the roof, kissing. It was silly and innocent, with two young boys discovering what the clumsy glide of lips and the curious touch of hands on another person was like for the first time. Even in the succeeding sobriety and pounding headache, it would never be brushed off as a mistake.

That was kind of how they got together, with a mutual understanding that I feel like I’ve known you forever and I want to know you even more, and a “We should date” followed by a “I thought we already do”, and then a full-bellied laugh that brought tears to their eyes. When they walked home together that day with matching overjoyed grins and their hands in each other’s, their parents had only smiled knowingly, embracing them in congratulations and then inviting them to dinner before the casseroles got cold.

It was perfect, and they were perfect. So everyone thought, anyway.

Because the world stood still the day Johnny and Jaehyun broke up.

SEPTEMBER ✘

Johnny remembers the beginning of the end all too well: a cold, starless September night, with the right bite and acidity in the atmosphere, telltale of an impending rain. But he only pulled his sweater tighter around himself, climbing out of his window and onto the rooftop to brave the wintry evening air.

Jaehyun was supposed to come home that day; he had been attending college in New York, and Johnny never had the heart to stop him the day he had proudly announced that he passed the entrance exams to his dream university, even though Johnny had turned down various scholarships in hopes that Jaehyun would’ve done the same. That he would’ve decided to stay with him, wherever he went.

Nevertheless, Johnny had been nothing but supportive, telling Jaehyun he would be right there, waiting at the same place, at the same time for when he comes home again. And that, Jaehyun did every few months, spending semestral breaks in Johnny’s arms, avoiding tearful See you’ s every time he had to leave over and over again.

Eventually, he wouldn’t have to go, Jaehyun had said, and Johnny had smiled at him, because there wasn’t really anything else he could do.

Johnny heard his bedroom door swinging open, and he turned around so fast it gave him whiplash. He couldn’t hide his excitement, not even when he met Jaehyun’s turbulent eyes, searing despite being engulfed by the darkness of the empty hallway.

He stood there, seeming to deliberate.

It hadn’t crossed Johnny’s mind to feel hurt back then. He’d been so happy to see Jaehyun again. Instead, he’d ducked into his open window, padding into his room with a smile so wide he still remembers how much it hurt his cheeks.

“Jae!” He’d greeted, breathless from the sight of his boyfriend alone. “When did you get here? How was the flight back? Have you had dinner yet?”

Jaehyun didn’t smile until Johnny got close enough, and even then it was a ghost of an expression. Cold. Dead. Indifferent. Johnny had opened his arms for a hug, but Jaehyun refused to budge, at which Johnny faltered, arms dropping to his side.

“You… s’everything alright?” Johnny asked, propping up his forearm as he leaned against the doorframe. He gave Jaehyun a once-over, appearing as laid-back as ever, but his heart is hammering in his chest. He hoped Jaehyun would fail to see through his façade.

“Yeah just,” Jaehyun shrugged, shifting in his spot, and Johnny’s almost convinced he wasn’t actually a rock. “Just a bit tired, is all.”

Johnny had believed him, even when Jaehyun didn’t kiss him good night.

Tomorrow welcomed Johnny like a bucket of ice dumped over his head, because when he sprinted downstairs as soon as familiar baritone laughter rang through the house, and he spotted Jaehyun animatedly talking to Mrs. Suh in the kitchen, he finally let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

They had brunch together like usual, talked about everything and nothing over kimchi jjigae —a meal Johnny still can’t eat without feeling the need to hurl immediately—and somewhere in between, Jaehyun had suggested they play volleyball—a sport Johnny no longer has the heart for since, even though he was exceptional at it—and they competitively passed the ball around the lawn until they collapsed, breathless.

Later in the afternoon, when it had gotten too hot to move, they’d idled on the porch, chewing on fresh watermelon slices and playfully blowgunning the seeds at each other. And then they dozed off on Jaehyun’s parents’ lounge chairs, their hands dangling on the edge and brushing against each other’s.

It was such a lovely day that it made the previous one seem like nothing but a nightmare. A bad joke. A sick mirage.

And oh, how Johnny hoped that it really was.

That evening, Jaehyun bade his farewell with a smile that looked a little too sad, taking Johnny’s hand and giving it a chaste kiss. It brought tears to Johnny’s eyes for some reason, but when Jaehyun looked up and squeezed it tight, he’d blinked them away and smiled back instead.

As Johnny trudged back to his house, the journey felt uncannily long and deafeningly quiet. As soon as he got to his front yard, Johnny dropped to his knees, the grass soaking his jeans as anguished sobs wracked his body, even though he didn’t understand then why he’d felt so heartbroken.

Johnny found out that Jaehyun went back to university the very morning after.

He would’ve lost his temper knowing that his boyfriend hadn’t even thought to tell him beforehand, but Johnny being Johnny, he naturally thought about what he’d done that ticked Jaehyun off, or how there was probably an emergency at the university and he had to return sooner than expected. Probably.

So he’d waited for a call. Jaehyun usually hit him up early in the evening, right after his classes and extracurriculars. They’d talk for hours, and though the untalkative one, Jaehyun would tell him about his day, from his complex routine at the asscrack of dawn, to his tedious classes—which he insisted would be so much better if Johnny was around—down to  the music he’s listening to before falling asleep. In turn, Johnny would listen, holding onto the small bouts of peace and happiness the younger’s demure, sonorous voice gave him.

But that night, Johnny didn’t receive any texts or calls or even a stupid fucking memoji.

Not hours after, or days after.

Johnny wouldn’t hear from Jaehyun again even weeks after that.

OCTOBER ✘

The next time would be nearly a month later, on a humid afternoon in the living room, peeling string beans and laughing over some sitcom Johnny’s mom had put on. He’d pried his eyes away from the ridiculously-dressed, prancing characters when he noticed his phone light up in his periphery. “‘Scuse me, eomma, ” Johnny mumbled, practically running upstairs once his mother waved him off.

He closed his bedroom door behind him, leaning against it as he stared at his phone screen for a solid ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. A minute.

Just in case it wasn’t real.

Johnny slid his thumb over the green icon. “Jaehyunnie!” He hoped he didn’t sound too peppy or too tense.

“Hey, hyung .” Johnny’s heart sank. He wasn’t sure if he should be daunted that Jaehyun sounded devoid of all emotion, or that the boy opted out of calling him by name.

“What um, what’s up babe?” Johnny tried, running his fingers through his hair. “Everything okay? I,” he swallowed, taking a breath. He can’t even bring himself to sound angry, even though he has all the right to be. “Haven’t heard from you in like, a while.”

Johnny can hear Jaehyun attempt a smile on the other end of the call, or at least he hoped he was.

“I was thinking, hyung.” Johnny visibly winced. Seemed there was no dropping that damned honorific.

Jaehyun paused, inhaling deeply before letting out his next statement in one breath, one Johnny wished he never heard then, if at all.

“We should break up.”

Johnny had stared ahead, eyes training on his dresser. At the trophies, the medals, and the framed photos, until he wasn’t sure if his head hurt from the strain, or from the tears that prickled his eyes.

“I can’t do this anymore, hyung,” Jaehyun continued, voice adamant while hollow. “Let’s break up.”

Johnny pressed his phone hard against his ear, pulled at a loose string on his jeans. He counted to fifteen. Maybe he’d misheard.

“Hyung?” Jaehyun called out, worried at the extended period of silence, and that was the last straw.

“What the fuck are you talking ABOUT? ”

Johnny heard a thud. Jaehyun must’ve jumped from the older’s unexpected outburst, but in that moment, Johnny could no longer bring himself to be empathetic.

“All this time… doing things your way, growing cold and disappearing on me… and you say you can’t take it?” Johnny punches the wall to his side. His voice had gotten significantly louder, and he could only hope his mother’s noontime show was enough to drown him out. “What was it, do tell, that you can no longer take? How I tried to be understanding? How much I sacrificed my own hopes and dreams just so you can have a home to come back to? How much I waited, and waited, and waited even though I missed you every fucking second and couldn’t do shit about it??”

“Hyung, I—”

“Don’t you fucking. DON’T,” Johnny interjected, holding out a finger to silence the younger even though he definitely cannot see him. He felt his lip quiver as he opened his mouth, so he closed it again. Unable to muster anything, Johnny decided to take a sharp breath to keep his emotions from spilling over. Man, was he so glad Jaehyun couldn't see him.

“Just… don’t. Don’t do this, Jaehyun,” Johnny managed, his voice so quiet he wasn’t sure if Jaehyun even heard him. “Don’t leave me. Don’t. Throw us away. I won’t— can’t do this. I will die.”

Johnny ended the call before Jaehyun could say anything else. Throwing the dumb brick across the room in desperation, everything he had kept at bay finally spilled over, and he slid down against the door, cheeks running hot with tears and anger. Johnny punched the carpeted floor, the side of his fists burning with chafe, but it’s better than feeling numb, he supposed. Yet, it was somehow still not enough and Johnny began bombarding his skull with harsh raps, frustratedly pulling his hair like it would do him any good. He must have screamed as he crashed his body against the door because seconds later, his mom knocked and begged him to let her in.

Johnny must’ve forgotten to lock the door too, because his mother easily forced her way in, Johnny letting himself get pushed across the floor a blubbering mess. He felt a warm pair of hands slide up and down his back, and immediately he engulfed his mother in a much-needed embrace.

“It’ll be okay,” he heard her say, though she probably didn’t know what’s going on. “You’ll be okay.”

He felt something intangible burn in his stomach.

No. It won’t .

—

Johnny rolled over on the carpet, looking as defeated as ever.

He’d refused to partake in meals for the rest of the day—days? Or has it been a week? Perhaps a month? Johnny could no longer remember—opting instead to waste away in his room. Though occasionally, his mom would come in with a tray of food, or his dad would knock with an offer to talk, but he barely acknowledged their presence until they decided to let him be. He’ll come around, they must’ve thought. But Johnny felt like he’d rather suffocate if the next breath he took wouldn’t be one with Jaehyun still in his life.

He blinked, sniffling.

God, he must look like shit.

Trimmed nails absentmindedly caught on a dilapidated shoe box peeking from under his bed, and he played at the frayed ends of decorative paper stuck on the box. He scanned the faded, mismatched stickers littering the dark surface. He thought it looked ugly as hell. He blinked again, tilting his head.

Wait .

Johnny slowly turned and propped himself up on an arm, pulling out the shoe box. He blew away the collected dust on the cover, turning the object in his hand in scrutiny.

As if he’d just realized something, he placed the shoe box on the floor, opening it in haste, and to confirm his suspicion, layers of paper—ripped out from a notebook, carefully chosen parchment, even stained fast food tissue—practically spilled out and cascaded down before Johnny’s lap.

He carefully picked up one—Japanese paper, clumsily folded into an origami crane—turning it in his palm.

Did you know that if you fold a thousand paper cranes, your dreams will come true? Here’s the first one I made for you, 999 more to go!

Johnny choked out something like a laugh, or maybe a sob. He’d almost forgotten about the silly letters he and Jaehyun used to write to each other back then. He read over the words again, and fought down the lump that had formed in his throat, choosing to read another—this time from an unevenly torn page from a graphic notebook.

You and I must be perpendicular lines. We may have missed each other infinite points in time, but I’m glad we met in this one.

Tears he didn’t realize had started falling spilled onto the paper, at which Johnny hastily rolled his sleeve over his fist, swiping away at the paper in hopes of salvaging it, but he only ended up further ruining it, the words bleeding out and fading until mostly ‘ We may have missed each other ’ was legible.

How could he destroy such a special little thing?

Just like what he does with every other special thing in his stupid little life.

Johnny held the paper against his heart as he curled up on the floor, bitter sobs leaving his chest.

—

Eventually, rereading the letters gave Johnny more solace than despair.

The effaced words awakened a strange sense of hope within him, blurring the lines between effects of exposure therapy and pointless delusion.

It’s good in some ways, because Johnny would start to leave his room more often, and meals would be less quiet, and the smallest of smiles would be offered at his dad’s usual latte quips. Then he would try again, eating and sleeping and working out and even showering properly, until the Johnny everyone knew was mostly back.

He would also sit at his desk—engulf it, mostly, since he’d outgrown it since the last time he sat there—testing out if his ballpoint pens are still functional, and would jot down his thoughts at that moment, however mundane they may be, just like when Jaehyun would still tell him about his day-to-day.

During a particularly serene evening at the dinner table, Johnny strikes up a conversation on his own volition, and it’s so unusual that his parents straighten up and give him their full attention. The expectation is so clear in their eyes that Johnny almost considers backing out.

“Jaehyun and I… we broke up.”

Mr. and Mrs. Suh share a look. It’s as if they knew, but didn’t.

Johnny avoids their eyes. He thought he could do this now, but the wound will always be far too fresh. The bandage needs to be ripped off, but he has no hand to hold through it. He’s not brave enough on his own.

A minute or so passes, and Johnny feels a hand over his—his mom’s. “We’re so sorry, Johnny- ya. ”

The chair beside him shifts, and his dad fills in the space, wrapping around him in a stiff embrace. “You’ll be alright.”

Johnny keeps his eyes down, playing mini golf with his peas using his fork. A small smile plays on his lips, something to assure his parents, but in reality he’s trying not to break apart. Not after everything he’s tried so hard to rebuild.

Not again.

—

Johnny Suh is no Lara Jean, he likes to believe.

There’s a box of letters, but there’s only one boy he’s ever loved —loves— and unlike Lara Jean, Johnny decides to ruin his life before someone else ruins it for him. God knows he’s already done a great part of said ruination on his own anyway.

So he stands in line at the post office, towering above most of the patrons, which comprises the middle-aged to the elderly, because who the hell even sends letters anymore?

Still, Johnny offers his signature Good Boy Smile at the lady behind the counter, who looks as wrinkled and as depressed as they come in the dimly-lit office. She barely pays him any heed, mechanically taking the pre-filled information sheet from his gargantuan hand, until she comes to her senses and gives him a double-take, possibly realizing that a) he is a young man in this dark age wormhole b) he is a young man who can barely peer into the glass separator without having to bend down to nearly half his height and c) he is one goddamn handsome young man.

Said young man leaves the post office with an O.R. stub and the pride that he made the stoic cashier lady smile.

Johnny’s days have been spent like that since—a morning jog, a quick shower, an even quicker breakfast, and a trip to the post office to mail the letter he’s written the night before.

Rinse, repeat.

The wind picks up as Johnny steps out, Converses hitting the pavement in a gravelly crunch. He walks to the bus stop, tightening his denim jacket over a faded hoodie. Crunch. He checks his phone. Crunch. Three minutes until the next bus arrives.

Johnny waits, thinks of literature, of poetry, of art, and the constant tragedy within. Tales spun in words and rhythm and color where teary eyes and broken screams can no longer suffice. How there’s always a muse in the core of it all. He reckons Jaehyun is his tragedy, though it’s the unexpected kind, an otherwise never-once-imagined, unwanted inspiration. If keeping Jaehyun meant staying in a world that thrived in monochrome and darkness, then Johnny supposes it shouldn’t be too bad. Jaehyun’s there with him, after all.

But now, his world basks in the same greyscale, and he is alone, screaming with ink-stained hands and furious indentations against paper during nights that seem to never end, speaking to ghosts that are uncertain to hear.

The mail normally gets delivered during the weekends, allowing for around three to ten days preceding arrival, probably even more when considering it’s in another country. And if he’s really lucky, it’ll probably get lost along the way, or get stuck among heaps of parcels in the receiving post office, never to see the daylight ever again. But he tries not to think of that.

A part of Johnny wishes Jaehyun’s sat down somewhere with his letters perched atop a brightly-highlighted, heavily dog-eared textbook, the already flushed surrounding of his doe eyes reddened more so than normal as he scans over Johnny’s messages. There’s probably a cup of Iced Americano staining his notes with condensation, and his distraction renders the drink more water than coffee.

A light breeze passes Johnny’s face, and the bus halts to allow his embarkment. He wonders if his words reach Jaehyun.

Johnny has long ago alleviated himself of expectation that he’ll ever hear back from his (ex) boyfriend. Sending the letters alone gives him a sense of peace, like tossing a pebble across a lake and watching it skip across —plop, plop, plop— before disappearing into the horizon. Though he would be lying if he claims that his heart wouldn’t race in anticipation whenever the mailman comes knocking, or that his stomach wouldn’t churn in disappointment when it turns out it’s just some monthly digest his mom subscribed to, or some hardware his dad ordered online.

The journey home was uneventful, and Johnny practically skips out and down the block, Converses digging into the soft bed of the well-trimmed Bermuda grass carpeting the front lawn.

He greets his dad with a pat on the arm, and his mom with a quick kiss on the cheek. She offers tea and a midday talk show, but Johnny declines politely. She doesn’t think too much about it though, instead gives him a loving smile as he sprints upstairs and locks himself up in his room.

He’d be there for another hour or so, she knows, yet it does nothing to alarm her.

Johnny is healing, and she lets him.

Pushing the too-small office chair into the too-small study desk, Johnny spins a ballpoint pen between his fingers. He pores over words and figures, though today he swaps blank parchment with newspaper, and instead of longing and hopeless romance he reads over classified ads, scholarship offerings, and affordable residences. He encircles some, underlines others.

This has also become a part of Johnny’s routine: grabbing the day’s newspaper on his way back, fingers dusting with xerox ink as he considers his future. Today, an opening at a particular accommodation catches his eye, near one New York University. His heart hammers, a startled bird within its cage. Thump, thump, thump .

His eyes narrow as he considers his choices, pen cap clutched and denting under relentless teeth.

NOVEMBER ✘

Johnny feels his resolve falter. This was not how it was supposed to go.

“Sure you didn’t forget anything?” Mrs. Suh looks like a microsecond away from an emotional breakdown, and Johnny feels like he’s thirteen and going to his first school camping trip all over again. “Your toiletries? Did you pack enough underwear? Dear me, we forgot the meal I prepared!” 

She clutches dramatically at her head, falling to the floor, and Mr. Suh hurries to help her up. Johnny sighs, casting awkward glances at onlookers lined up at the check-in kiosks.

“Whatever will I do? My poor baby will starve!” She cries, tears staining her face. Mr. Suh mirrors her expression, though he seems a hair’s breadth from resolving to just dragging her away.

Johnny manages a smile, assuring his beloved mother with an embrace. “I’ll be fine, eomma . ‘Sides, it’ll probably be spoiled by the time I get there. M’sure I can get something to eat there. I can take care of myself. I’ll be fine. ”

Taking off the shawl around her shoulders, Mrs. Suh wraps it around Johnny’s neck into a scarf. She reaches up to squeeze Johnny’s face, countenance making it seem like her son’s leaving for good, instead of a mere few weeks’ worth of vacation. Johnny frowns.

“Mom,” he exhales, placing his hands over his mom’s against his cheeks. She somehow looks even closer to crying. “I’ll be fine.”

“Johnny, my Johnny,” she sobs wetly, her son’s words seeming to pass over her head. “All grown up, my baby.”

“It’ll be just a few days,” Johnny coos, leaning down so his mom can better hold him. “Before you know it, I’ll be back to bug you again.”

“You never bugged me, Johnny- ya, ” she blubbers, nearly falling to the ground again if not for Johnny supporting her up.

“But you’re bugging him, ” Mr. Suh scolds, though he’s smiling and fighting back his own tears. He walks over to grab her shoulders, steering her away as Johnny’s flight gets announced through the intercom. Johnny slips out of his mother’s hold, and the loss of contact felt more painful than it should be.

Johnny takes deliberate steps towards airport security, ribbed suitcase suddenly feeling like it’s filled with rocks.

“Have a safe flight, John,” he hears his dad shout, and Johnny trips on invisible strings. Without turning around, he lifts an arm and waves. He disappears past security before allowing the tears to fall.

—

He’s aware of the repercussions of travelling alone, yet Johnny can’t help but be daunted by the reality once he exits the automatic sliding doors, and almost stumbles down on his ass from the strong gust that nearly blows him back into the airport lobby.

Welcome to New York, Johnny thinks grizzly, pulling his coat tighter around himself. He’s suddenly thankful for his mom’s gesture from earlier.

Supposedly, the residence is a few minutes’ walk from the airport, so for the said duration, Johnny walks, until minutes past, and he realizes he’s still walking.

Walking.

And walking.

Still walking.

Huh.

He lets himself fall against the side of the building he’s stopped at, exhaling smoke as he leans against the glass.

Johnny thought he was ready for whatever this trip will throw his way, since he thinks he’s already been through the worst of the worst. The risk he took was definitely calculated.

But man , is he bad at math.

Johnny considers the stranger a few feet from his refuge under the awning of a fancy-looking cafe. He has a thick, slate coat over a white button-up attached to crisply-pressed dress pants with suspenders, and argyle socks accenting dark brown oxfords to match. Bleached curls fall over his eyes so Johnny can’t properly assess his disposition, but his wire-framed glasses seem to be trustworthy.

People who wear eyeglasses will never harvest your organs , Johnny thinks. He conclusively braves the snow to make his approach.

A quivering, nearly frostbitten hand shoots out, tugging awkwardly at the stranger’s sleeve.

Johnny makes to stand up straighter and grin crookedly when he turns around. He’s lucky to finally have caught someone’s attention, because he absolutely cannot take another second standing in the cold.

“Can I um,” Johnny balks, sniffling —god, his nose must be so red now— and reassuming his sheepish expression. The blonde stranger faces him fully, pushing up his glasses on a perfect slope of a nose. Johnny clears his throat, lifting up his phone to show an opened Google Maps screenshot. “I need help with directions. I’m lost.”

It has gotten pretty dark, and Johnny’s phone was terribly cracked, so the stranger, standing a few inches shorter than the aforementioned giant, has to squint and lean on his tippy toes to see better. Johnny almost felt bad, except he’s been freezing his nuts off for the past half hour he’s been walking around in the same area, someone else might as well partake in his suffering.

Finally, the man leans back, moving his arm as if to point somewhere, but he pauses, seeming to deliberate. Instead, his lifted index finger drops to the side of his head in a pensive scratch. Eyeing Johnny’s heavy luggage and violently shivering six-foot-something frame, he tuts under his breath.

“Actually, I think it would be better if you just take a cab. Here—” The stranger lifts a hand, and like magic, a taxi halts at his disposal. “I’m going the same way too, would you mind if we go together? My treat.”

If not for the impending total loss of heat in his balls, Johnny would’ve leapt a mile apart from the man and sprinted as far as his long legs would carry him. But he was too happy about finally finding a shelter from the cruel flurry that the blaring STRANGER DANGER warning signs are shut off and bound and gagged and thrown to the back of his brain, far behind the dusty boxes of his emo phase paraphernalia and naked baby photos, and he hastily climbs in, dragging his suitcase behind him. 

The stranger calmly tells the driver their destination like he’s done this a million times before, relaxing against the faux leather seat with an exhale so deep that Johnny could practically feel it warm up the enclosed space.

Normally, Johnny would’ve been thankful for the shared silence, but as they drive by buildings that look like the same, tall rows of huge, lit up tombstones beneath all the snow, an unexplainable pit of discomfort digs itself within his gut, and somehow he feels like he just has to start a conversation.

“Thanks um,” Johnny mutters, slightly rocking back against the backseat, cold hands curling into fists. “Thanks for helping me.”

“Oh no, it’s nothing,” the man waves both his hands, clad in dark velvet gloves that Johnny’s convinced he’s definitely someone straight out of the Kingsman films. “I’m going the same direction anyways, might as well.”

Johnny offers a grateful bow and a small smile, and another blanket of silence sits between them. He’s thankful the other man breaks it first this time.

“I’m assuming you’re new here,” he states, punctuated with another deep exhale that tints Johnny’s cheeks as a pleasant scent permeates his nostrils. Hmm, mint. “Attending NYU, perhaps…?”

“Oh no, my boyf—” Johnny’s eyes widen at his almost-mistake. “I mean, it depends on if I get accepted or not.” A lie. “But for now I’m in the city for. Um. Soul-searching, I guess.”

“Ah, that’s good, that’s good,” the man nods enthusiastically, while internally Johnny wonders if he’s making any sense. It’s been a while since he’s properly socialized with another human being besides his parents and Jaehyun, God forbid all this time he’s just been uttering caveman speech. “The city’s majestic during the winter. Although personally, I prefer the sun.”

“Right??” Johnny claps his hands together, suddenly a little too enthusiastic for someone who’s found no more than one common thing with a perfect stranger. In his periphery, he notices the taxi driver casting him a stern glance through the rearview mirror, and he visibly shrinks. He coughs, and he swears he hears the stranger chuckle under his breath.

Johnny clears his throat. “Me too. This weather is killing me. I mean, look at me! I look like Rudolph on vacay after the holidays, geez.”

This time, the man actually laughs out loud, the sound melodic while idiosyncratic, causing goosebumps to erupt across Johnny’s already freezing arms. He shakes his head, as if it would shake the feeling off.

“You’re a funny one,” the stranger notes with a playful point of his finger, and when Johnny looks at him and notices the dip of dimples accenting his cheeks, a sharp pang gnaws at his heart.

The rest of the ride is spent in quietude once more, but it’s a little less heavy than before, or at least Johnny pretends so, for the sake of the two other men in the vehicle. He sighs quietly, pondering his letter for the night. He considers telling Jaehyun about the kind stranger beside him, about his odd but otherwise charming sense of fashion, and how his dimples remind him of Jaehyun’s.

He casts the stranger another glance, admires the multicolored lights silhouetting his face.

Maybe not.

—

Usually, Johnny would have trouble settling in in an unknown territory, but that night, he passed out as soon as his body hit the mattress. To say it’s the soundest sleep he’s had in a while would be an understatement.

In the past, during school or family trips, Johnny would lie awake tossing and turning. Neither listening to music nor counting sheep would help him find peace. But Jaehyun would always be lying next to him, and he would hold his hand and accompany him through it. The mere warmth of having someone take painstaking measures to care for you would eventually have Johnny succumbing to rest.

Perhaps, given that he’s walked for hours on end in a goddamned blizzard after a nearly three-hour flight, he’d naturally be too exhausted to fidget this time. Or perhaps it’s the fact that he’s easily a few doors down from Jaehyun that he’s found the familiar comfort of a phantom weight against his side.

It’s still cold, but the heating system in the dormitory was surprisingly efficient, giving Johnny the ease of getting up instead of sleeping in for a few minutes more. There’s even a French press, so Johnny happily makes himself coffee, the kettle put to boil as he absentmindedly peeks through the window, lazily rubbing a hand over his bare torso.

The view from the kitchenette catches Johnny by surprise: the usual robin egg hue of the early morning sky, coat tailed by pale yellows and oranges, is instead supersaturated with indigo and bright orange.

Almost like it’s already late in the afternoon, his brain supplies helpfully.

Lingering in his near-metaphysical conundrum for a beat longer due to shock, the telltale whistle and fizzle of the kettle boiling and overflowing shocks Johnny out of his reverie, and he screams, leaping a mile away as he clutches at his heart.

Hastily turning off the stove, Johnny all but sprints to the bedroom, frantically digging through the mess of pillows and sheets like a burrowing animal desperately searching for his phone. Eventually, he finds it hanging precariously on the side of his unmade bed, holding on for its dear life entangled on the duvet, clearly neglected from being charged properly.

The proverbial drumroll plays in Johnny’s head as he wakes the device. It lights up for a good few seconds, enough for the glaring 6:19 PM to make him die inside, before the screen blacks out again.

Forget sleeping in… he thinks, plopping on the edge of his bed and slumping over in defeat. I’ve been out cold the whole day.

After a decent shower and a quick sandwich run, Johnny makes a trip to the nearest souvenir shop, one that’s a tasteful cross between lovely and a gentle breeze away from crumbling to smithereens. He tries not to grimace as the old man beams at him from behind the counter, opting for a practiced tight-lipped smile in return as he sifts through the dusty collection of postcards.

He picks one with a dichromatic watercolor painting of the Manhattan Bridge overlooking the East River, Brooklyn lit up in the horizon with splashes of tangerine popping out from the vast azure. NEW YORK is printed across the top in bolded serif, with The City of Dreams subtitling it in light typeface, perfect for complementing the otherwise intricate painting.

Eyeing the carelessly scribbled address on the corner of a small manila envelope, Johnny reads over and over the text as if he’ll ever forget, as if he doesn’t already know it better than the back of his hand. Johnny clutches the paper like a lifeline, the only thing keeping him rooted to reality, and from slipping against the thin sheet of ice that’s formed on the pavement. He easily navigates the way to Jaehyun’s door even though it’s technically the first time he’s visiting in person.

For the last time, Johnny compares the address on his letter with the one on the laminated sign by the door. The heavy curtains make it difficult to ascertain whether someone’s home or not, but he decides he’s not ready to face his (ex) boyfriend yet, so he’ll conceal his cowardice with paper and ink for now.

He remembers the postcard in his back jeans pocket, which suddenly feels like it’s made of lead as he slips it inside the envelope. His heart hammers in his chest and in his ears at the same time, and if not for his gloves Johnny’s sure his clammy hands would be shaking at a 4.5 magnitude.

With a punctuating exhale, Johnny attempts to lodge his letter in the gap between the door and the doorframe, forehead creasing and tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth in concentration. Instead of slipping in easily, the corner of the manila envelope creases from the thrust, and Johnny groans in frustration, tutting under his breath and smoothing out the fold.

Dammit, now the postcard must be fuc—

“HEY! What are you doing?” A voice booms from behind Johnny and he nearly screams.

Johnny’s body goes rigid as his brain considers fight or flight, but he’s miles ahead of himself, already flinging the envelope up in the air and running for his life. He makes it about a few feet from Jaehyun’s door before he slips against the concrete, landing on his ass with a resounding OOF .

“I—Are you okay??” Johnny hears the man call out, but he’s already standing up (read: trying to and miserably failing ). Sliding repeatedly on his hands and feet against the ground, the scene is a sight to behold, certainly one that would put figure skaters to shame. Finally, Johnny gains footing, hunkering down as he wobbles away in hopes that it will increase his momentum and decrease his chances of making a fool of himself again, because goddamn, his ass hurts.

“H–hey, stop! Where are y—why are you running?”

Johnny pirouettes into the nearest alley, folding his gargantuan frame as much as he can behind a trash bin and some cleaning supplies. He’s breathing like a dying exhaust pipe, eyes tearing up as he strains to watch out for his pursuer without being found out. A shadow sprints past where he’s hiding, and he nearly goes into cardiac arrest.

Johnny presses himself tightly against the wall. He clenches his jaw, pondering the familiar powder blue sweater and black beanie the man was wearing.

His heart refuses to rest easy. Johnny thinks he might’ve just run into the exact person he’s avoiding.

—

On the brighter side, there haven’t been any warrants out for Johnny.

Not yet, at least.

He hasn’t heard any rumors either, mostly because he’s been cooped up in the cold darkness of his room, much like how he acted fresh from the breakup, avoiding coming anywhere near open windows and staying in corners like some modern-day vampire. It means that either the residents simply mind their own business, which should come off as a relief, or that the security is actually shittier than the newspaper had claimed, which should probably be alarming.

Unfortunately, his supplies can only last him for so long—which really only ever consisted of a single packet of top ramen, a curry mix, two cups of instant rice thrown hastily into his open luggage, a banana (“to stay healthy”, he convinces himself), and the complimentary coffee granules from the residence—and he has to step out if he doesn’t actually want to end up a pathetic, mummified heap.

The moment Johnny decides to step out for his grocery run though, as soon as he turns around to lock the door, he’s given the second worst scare of his life when he feels a hand land on his shoulder and he lets out a not-so-manly scream. Johnny spins and presses himself against the door like it would offer some kind of protection, his life flashing before his eyes as he nearly becomes one of the half million that’s risked to cardiac arrest every year.

Said heart attack comes in the form of a tiny, tiny man with an ash brown bowl cut, a navy blue parka, and a pair of khaki pants. He beams up at Johnny with something straight out of a toothpaste commercial, so much so that Johnny has to shield his eyes for his vision to adjust.

“W-Who—” Johnny tries calmly, but the man beats him to it, holding out a hand with a speed that sends him hurtling back towards the door again.

“Taeil Moon, I’m the receptionist on duty today, pleased to finally meet you!” The man greets, and when Johnny refuses to budge, Taeil takes the liberty to grab his grizzly bear hands and wiggle it about. His grip is easily that of a politician’s, Johnny notes. “Now, now. It’s just a handshake, come on!”

Johnny attempts a smile that he’s sure is more of a grimace, but he goes with it. Since when was he such a social cripple? Heartbreak can really change you, huh.

“Johnny,” he responds finally, voice coming out uncharacteristically quiet. He clears his throat, all but forcing his hand out of Taeil’s hold. “May I-uh. May I. Help you?”

“Oh no, I was just,” Taeil pats himself down until he finds what he’s looking for: a crisp white envelope with the sort of texture that only the fanciest paper has. He offers it towards Johnny, and for a second, Johnny thinks he’s about to be asked to join a religious sect. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but I thought you weren’t at home.”

Johnny gingerly takes the envelope, and his eyes go round when he sees the dark red wax seal. The fuck?

“You see, all the letters and packages, they’re sent down to reception first,” Taeil rambles, starting to blow hot air into his folded hands, playing hopscotch in place to maintain his body heat. Johnny’s surprised he’s still so energetic despite the weather. “For sanitation and security purposes. Y’know, protocol stuff and all that jazz, rest assured we never open anything addressed to the residents though, so nothing to worry about.”

“Ah,” Johnny acknowledges—realizing now why there wasn’t a letterbox for him to sneak his last letter into, risking his ass a concussion or two in the process—not entirely sure what else to say. He’s still awestruck by the goddamned wax seal, which gleams every time he turns it in his hands.

“So yeah, there you go! The next time you expect a package, just go down to reception and say hi,” Taeil gives him another bright smile, and Johnny’s sure it glints off the wax seal. “By the way, really gorgeous stuff you got there. Got an admirer from the royal family or something?”

A joke. Johnny actually laughs as he feels it resonate through his veins, making him feel giddy and causing goosebumps to erupt under his clothes. He bites his lip, suppressing a giggle.

He supposes Jaehyun is his prince.

“Something like that.”

—

The third almost-heart attack of the week comes in the form of an elegantly-written letter, one Johnny nearly forgets about, crumpled and lost amongst his groceries, having rushed past Taeil on the way to the market before the worst of the snow falls.

The fancy paper drops by his feet as he’s putting away the wide selection of chips he’s so meticulously picked out for nearly half an hour, before proceeding to carelessly throw everything else into his shopping cart.

Johnny puts coffee to brew and throws himself on the couch, socked feet casually placed over the coffee table. If Mrs. Suh was here, he would get an earful, but the momentary independence feels liberating.

Peeling at the wax seal, Johnny takes a generous sip of his beverage and unfurls the letter. At the first glance the letter is a normal response to Johnny’s prior one-sided longing, but the further down the letter has him keeling over, nearly spitting out his coffee.

Dearest Johnny,

I’ve long ago considered how to respond, and due to the inkling that it isn’t my place, I’ve hesitated, but this has drawn for far too long that I simply have to intervene.

Your yearning has ignited in me an ember that I never knew was there; with your words you have caressed me, and with the emotions within, I’ve felt your kisses. Is this a game, or a jest on your part? It escapes me, but alas, I cannot resort to defeat. 

Your words have caused me an unbridled drive, a hunger that cannot be sated by my stubborn silence. For this, I must express—I desire to reciprocate your touch. I meet the glide of your proverbial hands as our bodies fit together in ways others will never witness, a secret we whisper between us, with the moon as our sole spectator.

Do tell, my dear, do you feel that way too?

Whether it be from the poured coffee or from the pored over words, Johnny feels his cheeks grow warm. He can’t believe it, but it’s right here, in the flesh, in a craftful fountain pen script. Since when has Jaehyun gotten this… brazen? Johnny’s not sure if he wants to know. 

He hugs the paper against his chest, looking around the dorm room as if someone will jump out at him. God forbid anyone else reads this letter.

Johnny reads the letter over and over again, even flipping over to the back just to be sure. His eyes rapidly dart from side to side like a ball sport spectator. Like a madman grasping at the only piece of Jaehyun he’s received in the past months.

He’s surprised he hasn’t popped a boner at this point.

Johnny has to physically slap himself. Get yourself together, John. You can’t fall for this again.

He slams the letter against the coffee table with a determined exhale, chewing the inside of his cheek in thought. If this is the game Jaehyun’s decided to play, well Johnny’s gonna play it better.

Johnny reads over the letter again , for ‘strategic purposes’.

He didn’t even sign it, Johnny notes, squinting pensively. A deliberate armor of anonymity. Ah, that sexy motherfucker.

Just like that, the game seamlessly incorporates itself into Johnny’s daily routine.

The first time he comes down to the receptionist’s desk, Taeil reacts so violently, rambling away every customer service template greeting known to man that Johnny’s convinced Taeil has never had anyone voluntarily visit him before. It’s honestly pitiful.

“For room 214,” Johnny tries to say coolly, but his hand is shaking when he slides the envelope over. He swallows audibly, pursing his lips and bracing himself for Taeil’s reaction. The man only blinks, smile unfazed as his gaze slowly lifts from the letter up to Johnny’s face.

“Okay!” Taeil confirms after a moment. He looks as bubbly as when Johnny first met him, almost oblivious.

Taeil turns to attend to his own business, but Johnny keeps his arm in place in a gorilla grip that has Johnny’s biceps flexing visibly under his shirt. That’s the first time Johnny sees Taeil’s friendly façade crumble, if only a little.

“You better not tell anyone about this,” Johnny warns, but his hold is quivering.

Taeil grins—grimaces, more confused than anything else at Johnny’s approach. “...sure?”

A singular bead of sweat trickles down Johnny’s temple. “It—just. It’s important you keep this private,” he explains, and Taeil only continues to smile back. Johnny’s seriously impressed. “ Capische? ”

“Not to worry, Mr. Johnny!” Taeil beams, saluting comically. “Mum’s the word!”

The next reply to his letter was nearly instantaneous, though no less obscene than the last. But Taeil’s expression is as friendly and unsuspecting as ever, and that’s how Johnny knows he can trust him to deliver his daily word porno without having to shoot the messenger.

Anyway, the lonesome receptionist just seems happy to help everytime Johnny drops by. Sometimes, after coming back from his morning jog, Johnny brings him Thank You For Not Opening My Sexts pastries, and each time, Taeil’s reduced to tears. It was off-putting at first, but Johnny remembers the post office lady, and he smiles empathetically.

The succeeding letters have Johnny kicking the air and giggling like a high school girl just as much as the first one, if not more. If the letters served as therapy before, then they’re something more of an addiction now.

It’s like Johnny has tripped into a wormhole and was brought back to their younger days, when times were easier. Stolen glances, held hands under tables, and paper planes through open windows. It gives Johnny the sort of excitement he hasn’t felt in a long while. Like he’s rediscovering both Jaehyun and himself, learning about what love is all over again.

Even though Johnny told himself he’s only doing this until he can fully let go, he’s afraid the exchange only has him holding on tighter.

A few days later, Johnny receives the shortest letter of the conversation. An ultimatum:

We should meet up.

It has the address of a nearby cafe, the very same one Johnny frequents to grab his Iced Americano and Taeil’s pastries. He imagines late afternoons and a sleep-deprived Jaehyun hunched over his notes, sitting on one of the corner tables.

So Johnny makes sure to pick that very same table, arriving a good fifteen minutes before the agreed time, just so he can compose himself well enough when he sees his (ex) boyfriend again.

He’s in the middle of practicing their hypothetical dialogue when he sees someone move in his periphery, hesitantly occupying the seat across from him. Johnny looks up so quickly it gives him whiplash.

“Uh…?” Johnny winces, rubbing the back of his neck. If it’s partially due to the pain, he doesn’t try to hide his disdain for the person who took Jaehyun’s seat either.

“ Johnny? ” The man says his name like he’s known it forever, but somehow can’t believe he does. Johnny quirks a brow, squinting at the stranger. Wire-rimmed glasses. Slicked back blonde hair. Brown leather jacket over a thick grey turtleneck. Dark slacks. Oxfords.

Eggsy?

“You,” Johnny says instead, feigning enthusiasm. He sits up straighter, stance intimidating. “Yeah, no, sorry. Who are you? ”

“Ah.” Placing his satchel by his feet, the stranger fully seats himself. He looks around, pursing his lips like he’s about to reveal he’s a member of the Secret Service. His dimples pop out nervously. Wait… “Seems like there’s a lot of explanation to be made—”

“— You! ” Johnny repeats, but this time with more conviction and a snap of the fingers, pointing at the man like he’s a Wheel of Fortune episode. “I remember! You helped me get to the residence!”

Instead of a game show bell, the man’s cheek dips in confirmation, but Johnny deflates. I don't remember introducing myself though…

“First off, my name’s Kun Qian,” the man starts, seemingly hearing Johnny’s thoughts. He speaks slowly like the disclosed information is supposed to ring any bells, but Johnny shakes his head.

“To… put it plainly, I’m the one who has been receiving your letters.”

Johnny blinks. The rest of the cafe fades out into radio silence. 

“Excuse me?”

“I know this is pretty hard to believe, but—”

Johnny guffaws, slamming the tabletop like Kun’s confession is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. He starts to attract neighboring tables’ attention, and even the queue at the counter starts peering curiously at their table. Kun shifts uncomfortably.

It takes Johnny a moment to calm down. He wipes the corner of his eyes, still coughing out leftover laughter. “Hilarious.”

Kun’s jaw sets. “You’re never going to believe me, are you?”

“Nope.” Johnny pops his lips for emphasis. He makes a face, turning to place his coat over his shoulders and prepare to leave.

“ ‘Oh my love, must you titillate me so,’ ” Kun recites suddenly, voice rich and carried through the cafe like opera notes bouncing against theatre walls. Johnny’s eyes go round, and he snaps back around. “ ‘How much longer until the next full moon? Nay, I needn’t the lunar phases to lose myself in worshipping your bo—’ ”

Johnny practically leaps over the table to clasp his hands over Kun’s mouth, coat long forgotten and thrown somewhere in panic. There’s a significant beat of silence in the cafe, and Johnny tints bright red.

With a gigantic man jumping him, Kun should look more terrified. But behind Johnny’s hands, his irises glint smugly. Johnny gets the feeling he likes proving himself right.

Johnny scowls. “We should probably leave.”

—

They escape to a nearby park.

There’s a light layer of frost carpeting the grass, and the night approaches quickly despite it being only a quarter to six. Even so, there’s children running around, playing frisbee with an equally energetic golden retriever, completely unbothered by the cold.

Johnny sits a few feet away, watching them from a safe distance with something akin to envy in his gut. On the other hand, he seems entertained by the mundane sight, until he catches Kun jogging towards him in his periphery, two cups of coffee in hand, and he reassumes a frown.

“Didn’t know what you wanted, so I just got an Americano,” the blonde explains, labored breath coming out in puffs of mist. He tosses extra packets of creamer and sugar in the space between them, sitting at an arm’s length. Johnny regards him with an apprehensive squint, grumbles a forced “thanks” before taking the proffered cup.

They sit in silence for a good few minutes, but even through the cacophony of children’s laughter and vehicles zooming past, and the distance between them, Johnny swears he can hear Kun’s heartbeat. It easily matches his own in a cardiovascular Grand Prix.

“Three things,” Kun starts, inhaling sharply. Johnny regards him with a vaguely disinterested tilt of the head. “First of all, I’m genuinely, genuinely sorry. It’s up to you whether you’ll forgive me or not, but just know that I didn’t mean to give you false hope, or for this to get so out of hand.

“Second of all, I owe you an explanation, so ask away. I swear I’ll tell you everything,” Kun turns towards Johnny eagerly, hands balled into fists over his lap. Like cat paws.

Johnny quirks his lips to the side, considering his next words.

“Alright,” he nods decisively, turning towards Kun and propping his head with an arm against the back of the bench. “Riddle me this: just how in the Multiverse of Madness did you get my”— ex— “boyfriend’s letters?”

Kun quickly opens his mouth to retort, only to close it again. His resolve seems to die quickly, despite the initial display of bravado, but Johnny stays quiet. After all, he can only imagine the hoops and alley-oops the man has to go through just to weasel his way out of this one. The least Johnny can offer is a little bit of patience, ride along before he combusts.

“Well,” Kun says carefully, like every breath is taking him everything just to broach the subject. “Your boyfriend— Jaehyun, right? He actually moved out a while ago.”

Johnny looks at Kun like he just insulted his mother. Does he actually think I’ll believe that?? But Kun continues before he can protest.

“But for some reason, up until the moment I moved into his dorm, they still kept sending the letters to me, especially with the new receptionist”— Oh Taeil, bless his heart, Johnny thinks in dismay—“and really, I haven’t had a clue what to do with them. At first, I didn’t have the heart to open them, but after a while, I thought it could help figure out who’s sending them and why I’m receiving them in the first place. And spoiler alert: they did anything but.”

Johnny shoots him a glare, and Kun raises his palms in defense.

“That is, until I came home one day, and lo and behold! An imposing figure is putting something into my door!” Kun drypans, gesturing wildly. It reminds Johnny of an excitable penguin. “Tell me in what reality was I supposed to think, ‘ definitely harmless, probably nothing to call the cops on’ ?”

Johnny opens his mouth to protest, but Kun assures him. “Which, for the record, I didn’t. You’re lucky I’m pretty forgiving.” Kun dares to smile smugly. Johnny looks like he’s considering manslaughter.

“So then, I thought it was just some long-running prank, and that I could take matters into my own hands. I thought writing back would put a stop to it, and I honestly did my best to play my part, but really, the letters just kept coming, and became more… how do I say this? Does erotic even cut it?”

Johnny has the audacity to roll his eyes. He gestures for Kun to get on with his tale, seemingly exasperated, though there’s an undeniable crimson painting his cheeks.

“Anyway, I went with it for a while,” Kun explains. “But at this point, since I’ve dug my grave so deep and you knew where I lived, I was convinced you’d show up again one day while I was gone, and I’d find you waiting in my shower or something—”

“—FUCKING RIDICULOUS.”

“So I decided to put an end to it in person,” Kun says pointedly. “So here we are, having exited the cafe in the most dramatic fashion, forced to share coffee outside in zero degree weather. What’s more, y—”

“Enough, that’s enough,” Johnny holds up a hand, the other clenched so tightly around his coffee cup that the material dents, the drink threatening to explode and spill all over his clothes. “You don’t have to tell me up to the last second. I get it, okay? Just. Give me a second to process all this.”

Johnny makes a face as he turns away from the blonde, pocketing his hands, leaning back and sliding down the wooden bench. He can practically hear Mrs. Suh from hundreds of miles away, berating him for his posture.

In the clearing, the kids from a while ago are being led away by their parents. A significant traffic jam has formed on the road up ahead.

Johnny clenches his jaw, sighing. “So that’s… one, two things. What’s the third?”

“I was thinking,” Kun looks down at his lap, coffee trapped between his thighs probably gone cold by now. “Maybe I could make it up to you.”

A passing vehicle drowns out Johnny’s thoughts. It’s become pitch dark by now, and even without the streetlamps flicking on around them, he’s sure he can see what Kun is thinking with how brightly his eyes twinkle behind his glasses.

“I can tour you around New York, for all the inconvenience I’ve caused,” Kun offers. “And you don’t have to worry about spending a single cent. Think of me as your personal tour guide—”

“— or slave— ”

“Yes, or slave,” Kun affirms, miffed. “What d’you say?”

Does he think he can buy his way out of this? Johnny clenches his jaw, watches the congestion in the road slowly begin to move. And to think! Who in their right mind would ever willingly come along with a total stranger?

He hears Kun sigh, mist wafting upwards and disappearing against the dark sky. He smells mint, warm and interlaced with coffee.

Apparently I would.

“Okay,” Johnny shrugs, nonchalantly even though he’s mentally chanting eat the rich, eat the rich. Kun actually turns towards him so violently that Johnny’s sure he hears some bones crack in his wake.

“Wait— really? ” Kun voices in disbelief.

“Yes, really, ” Johnny quirks a brow. Milk His Savings Dry and Stranger Danger wrestle around in his brain. “Don’t tell me you’re pussying out?”

“Me? Nooo, never.” Kun quickly dismisses, waving his hands in near-comical jazz hands. Johnny wants to roll his eyes again when he notices Kun fighting a satisfied smile. “It’s on, then.”

Johnny’s eyebrows shoot up when Kun stands up, dusting himself off. He slings his satchel around his shoulder, looking at Johnny expectantly.

“Wh—now? Already? ”

“Yeah, why not?” Kun checks his watch, already treading off to somewhere. “We’ve a few more hours before it closes. Come on.”

Johnny stubbornly gawks at his back, and when Kun doesn’t stop walking, Johnny realizes he’s being serious and jogs after him with a grumble.

It’s a short walk to downtown Manhattan, right into the heart of SoHo, and Kun mentally prepares himself for Johnny’s complaints even though it’s only been a little over two minutes.

But when he turns around and sees Johnny’s starry eyes, he can’t say he’s impressed that his plan is already working.

Marked by a characteristic black, red and white banner waving above its storefront, the Leica Photographic Gallery stands like a beacon of hope amongst other shops in what is dubbed the finest business establishment in New York. 670 Broadway is notable in its own right, but Kun’s sure the place is probably glowing in Johnny’s sight. They’re smack dab in the middle of the neighborhood that housed the creative genius of Warhol, Basquiat, and Haring after all, not to mention other prominent figures in the photography industry.

Kun makes to lead the way and explain why he brought Johnny here, but the latter holds up a hand, effectively silencing him before he can even speak.

“How did you know? ” Johnny asks, expression that of a child on Christmas morning. He even skips over to the glass display, inspecting the cameras in awe. “ Leicas ’re like, the Porsche of cameras.”

Kun wordlessly taps on a folded piece of paper peering from his satchel, smiling innocently. Right, Johnny scowls, mentally cursing his dimples. I’ve just been telling a complete stranger my whole life story and more. How could I forget?

Turning his nose up in the air petulantly and choosing to ignore Kun for the rest of the evening, Johnny allows himself to at least be excited by the photographic paradise. He peers down at each camera, intricately viewing the products while avoiding the price tag. Lord knows each Leica camera costs at least half a year’s worth of minimum wage.

It’s a dream so close yet so far, Johnny thinks dramatically.

“Want to check out the gallery?” Kun suggests with a clear of the throat, pointing to the stairs at the back, leading up to floors that are invisible from where Johnny’s standing. With a reluctant pout, Johnny looks back towards the camera displays, clearly unwilling as he bids farewell to his current object of affection.

Much to Johnny’s chagrin, the short journey to the gallery four floors up felt like hours, but at least it was spent mostly in silence. Their footsteps are metronome clicks against the metal surface of the stairs, keeping in time with the white noise of the city below.

“‘ Spaces’ ,” Johnny reads out loud the exhibit description printed across a huge sintra board, the impressive minimalist design displayed on the landing wall. “‘A visual exploration on the impermanence of life and the constancy of change using liminal spaces. A representation of being on the precipice of something new but not quite yet, Spaces provokes both the artists and the viewers in ways that transcend the senses, challenging them to bring forth their psyche in places they are least comfortable in.’ Hm.”

The exhibit features works by Photography Club members from a local high school, meticulously hand picked for a chance to be showcased at the Leica SoHo. Johnny makes a face, impressed, nodding to himself as he walks around the displayed photographs—tunnels, hallways, bridges, train cars, stairwells.

He turns a corner, and behind a divider, a taut red string is photographed right before it’s cruelly snipped by a sharp pair of scissors. Johnny’s feet grow cold, his heart dropping to his stomach.

A breakup .

Johnny must’ve stood in front of that specific photograph for a little too long because when Kun manages to catch up to him, he nearly screams when he feels the latter’s hand land on his shoulder. The look he returns is unintentionally hostile, more from trepidation than anything else.

Kun is quick to lift his hands away, both palms raised in defense. “Whoa, sorry?”

“What?” Johnny demands.

“Nothing, I was just worried,” Kun says, an attempt to placate Johnny’s unwarranted temper. “You looked a second away from an emotional breakdown. Or fainting.”

Johnny turns away with a snort, moving onto the next photograph, but really he’s suddenly all too self-conscious, wondering if Kun did actually see him tear up and quiver.

For the rest of the exhibit, Kun follows closely behind Johnny, almost protectively. Johnny tries to give him the cold shoulder, burning holes into the photograph labels.

“So… you’re into photography,” Kun comments, and Johnny fights the urge to retort with way to go, Captain Obvious. “Have you done any shoots lately?”

“Not really,” Johnny replies curtly, not once turning his attention away from the exhibition. Though at this point, it’s become increasingly impossible to ignore the man who seems to inch closer as every second drips by.

Somehow, Kun remains oblivious and continues to attempt small talk. “Why? I thought it was your passion.”

“Haven’t had the time.”

“Understandable. Do you have a preferred subject?”

“Portraits, mostly.”

“Have you ever done a professional shoot? If not, what was your favorite session?”

“No, but this one time—” I spent a day trekking and taking photos with Jaehyun. It remains to be one of the best days of my life.

“What camera do you use?” Kun queries, now effectively shoulder to shoulder with the taller man. “Oh, oh! We should collab sometime!”

This time, Johnny stops in his tracks and  actually looks at him, hoping he doesn’t look irritated. When he sees Kun’s enthusiastic expression, he realizes that the blonde must actually be interested. Moreover, Johnny’s grateful that Kun’s trying to cheer him up, at least.

“ Fujifilm X100F ,” Johnny sighs. Kun gasps, eyes lighting up behind his glasses like fairy lights behind frosted windows.

“No way, mine too!”

“Really now?” Johnny crosses his arms over his chest, lips quirking to one side. A small smile if it qualifies to be one, but it’s a start. “Sounds like you know your stuff. Maybe we definitely should collab.”

Kun mirrors the expression, dimples dipping in relief. Johnny’s smile helplessly widens.

 —

Johnny plops himself down on one of the couches in the residence lobby. Tapping away a quick response to his mom’s good morning messages, he doesn’t notice the person already sitting there, and accidentally bumps his shoulder.

“Oh, sorry man,” Johnny mumbles, barely catching the tuft of blonde before returning his attention back to his phone. Yes, mom. I’ve been eating well, and the—

He does a double-take. Kun?

“Hello to you too,” Kun grumbles, rubbing his shoulder. Clad in a black puffy bomber jacket layered over an oversized plaid button-up and a graphic shirt, Johnny gawks at him. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No?” It sounded more like a question than an answer, but other than a quirk of one perfect brow and a Let’s go then, Kun doesn’t pry further.

It’s still cold, Johnny notes as the 10 AM air caresses his face, but a little warmer that they don’t have to spend the day lugging around in heavy coats. They easily hail a cab despite it being a Saturday, and Johnny quietly thanks the momentary warmth provided by the vehicle.

“To Central Park Zoo, please,” Kun instructs, and Johnny’s back to gaping at him again.

“What??” Kun demands, frowning. Johnny looks him up and down, and if staring a little too long at the milky knees peeking through Kun’s ripped skinny jeans is a crime, he would never admit to it even in the court of law. The blonde follows his gaze. “Do I… look bad?”

“No,” Johnny says again, a little aggressively. “Just. I didn’t know you were capable of dressing up… normally .”

“Now what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, you just walked around like a Van Heusen model like, all the time since I met you,” Johnny explains, gesturing wildly. “In this, I almost can’t recognize you.”

Kun purses his lips. He’s unsure if he should take that as a compliment, so he says instead, “of course I can dress ‘normally’. I clean up more smartly for class.”

If it came from anyone else, it would’ve sounded snobbish, and current grudges aside, Johnny can’t help but agree. Can’t he admire a homie? Johnny’s not one to deny himself such truths. Besides, Johnny Suh is the Bisexual Posterboy of Chicago. In any case, Kun is objectively attractive, and anyone with eyes who says otherwise might as well be blind.

“You sure do take your classes seriously,” Johnny comments, changing the subject. “Of course, New York University? You’re like a big deal.”

“Ah, I guess so,” Kun waves his hand, the other one coming up to rub the back of his head bashfully. “It’s nothing.”

“What are you taking, by the way?” Johnny asks, absentmindedly looking out the window as they take a turn, weaving into the morning traffic.

“Musical Theatre Writing.” 

“Whoa… dreaming of the limelight someday, are we?”

“Not so much,” Kun counters. “Clearly, I chose writing because I’m more of a behind-the-scenes kinda guy.”

“Still, that’s pretty cool. And, well. Ambitious,” Johnny teases, turning back to watch Kun’s expression, who only smiles shyly. Judging by first impressions alone, Kun does seem like the type of person to have his head in the clouds. If he has his feet planted firmly on the ground, Johnny is yet to confirm.

“Thanks," Kun shrugs. “What about you?”

“Uh, Bachelor of Science in Doing Nothing, Majoring in Waste of Space,” Johnny jests, the attempt as weak as the crooked smile that takes over his lips. He redirects his attention to the window, flustered. He doesn’t know if Kun failed to surmise the worst with their frequent correspondence, or if he’s simply extending the courtesy of returning the question, but having nothing to show up for sure is embarrassing as hell. “I’m jobless, Kun. Just in case that wasn’t obvious.”

“Ah, sorry?”

Johnny never imagined in a thousand years that he would ever make being a Heartbreak Girl his personality trait, but now that he thinks about it, he’s wasted away nearly two months of his life yearning for someone who never even thought to look back once. He moved out without even telling Johnny, for fuck’s sake! It was like the sixteen years they’ve spent together never happened or mattered, and Jaehyun never even existed in the first place.

Unsurprisingly, Central Park Zoo is brimming with visitors. The crisp morning air is granted the audience of sunlight, making it a perfect day for a walk around the city. A low buzz fills the air, what with families, friend groups, and couples pouring into the entrance.

“Come on,” Kun says, grabbing Johnny’s arm and tugging him towards the ticketing booths. Johnny looks down at his hand, but Kun seems to think nothing of the gesture, only marching forward and leading him through the crowd. “We’re still pretty early, but it will be hell if a queue forms. Especially if we have to stand behind a Karen.”

Luckily, despite the traffic and the throngs of people, the pair is able to secure admission tickets within a few minutes. They move towards security, already looking frazzled from having to weave through the crowd, breathing like fish out of water.

“You’ve never been here before, have you?” Kun asks, looking over a pamphlet. Johnny attempts to peer over his shoulder curiously. 

“I think I have,” Johnny replies. Kun flips the catalogue over to the map side. “When I was like, super young, though.”

“Neat,” Kun beams, handing Johnny the guide, who confusedly takes it. The blonde walks ahead, turning right into the arch marked Central Garden . “Let’s go, we’re right on time for the first show!”

Johnny jogs to keep up with Kun, right into the amphitheatre-esque venue. Once inside, as if under a spell, he saunters towards the spectacle in the center, down a small set of steps forming around a polygonal pool.

He’s definitely been here before, Johnny realizes in better clarity now, flashes of a memory that once was playing in his mind as if a rolling super 8 film. It was a very distant past, the type that he’s amazed he can still somehow recall shards of—a past that Jaehyun was yet to have spaces to fill, a past that Johnny can proudly call his alone. He was around three years old, he thinks, pressing desperately against the glass enclosing, but his breath only fogs up the glass. But almost immediately, he is hoisted up and perched on his dad’s shoulders, and with tear-stained cheeks, his expression clears into one of glee.

Today, Johnny finds himself free of Jaehyun’s traces again, forming memories that he can hopefully look back on someday, knowing that he’s finally brave enough to stand on his own and totally rid his heart of guilt.

Not to mention, Johnny is so much taller now too, and can easily tower over the rest of the audience, though that doesn’t stop him from excitedly bouncing on his tiptoes in an attempt to try to see past the artificial terraform in the middle of the water, past the smooth boulders and small cavern, far ahead where the animals are probably getting ready for the show.

Kun pats his back, chuckling. “Hey, calm down, Goliath. There are people behind you.”

Johnny grins sheepishly, but his irises are twinkling.

Finally, the most awaited of the hour comes bounding out, and Johnny has to hold his hands over his mouth in a dramatic gasp—“SEA LIONS!”

He points over to the other end of the pool, where some of the pinnipeds flop on their stomachs towards the center, while others glide effortlessly from underwater to the surface, splashing the nearest audience, Johnny included, who only giggles as he shields his face. Kun considers teasing him about it, but when he sees the stars in Johnny’s eyes, he keeps quiet and simply smiles.

After the show, Johnny and Kun go straight to the Tropic Zone exhibit, a dimly-lit building housing rainforest creatures that can be viewed through enclosures along a wooden walkway. Getting ahead of themselves, the pair barely pay any mind to the signs by the door, so when a brilliantly colored nicobar pigeon swoops down from a low-hanging canopy and lands on Johnny’s head, Johnny squeaks and nearly drops to the ground. Kun laughs in amusement, taking as many photos as he can of the giant practically cowering under the bird that has started to lightly peck at his hair.

Then they traverse the Temperate Territory, admiring the tree-dwelling red pandas munching on some bamboo while curiously peeking at Johnny, who comes closer to take photos, but mostly to coo at their adorable beady eyes and cute button nose.

On the other side of the exhibit are the snow monkeys, playing and lounging around the edge of their heated pool, for which Kun sighs and expresses his envy. Johnny guffaws, suggesting he goes over the fence and dive right in. Kun’s frown deepens, but eventually Johnny’s belly laugh sends him in stitches too.

Just up ahead a steep hill are the snow leopards, as beautiful as they are fierce, peering through some leaves and behind some rocks crowned by tufts of snow. Even behind the glass, Johnny finds himself intimidated by the large feline. Kun teases him with a light push towards the enclosure and he yells, effectively attracting the other visitors in the area. A quick bow and an apologetic laugh, and Johnny chases Kun out, running around the displays until they bump into security and they’re ushered out of the area.

“Ah, there’s one last exhibit I want you to see!” Kun lifts his index finger animatedly, walking backwards to face Johnny. “You’re alright with that, right? We still have a bit of time to spare before lunch.”

Under Johnny’s hoodie, he practically feels his entire body vibrate as his stomach grumbles in protest. But Kun’s smiling at him so brightly with that dumb dimpled grin of his, which he can’t help but mimic, and he obliges before he can stop himself.

Treena’s Overlook features an islet of rock formations surrounded by a man-made moat, the already breathtaking tableaux delicately framed by small trees and shrubs. As if on cue, a grizzly bear comes crawling from behind a boulder, roaring lazily and idling in front of Johnny and Kun, almost in greeting.

Johnny gasps, exchanging looks with Kun, who beams proudly like he’s just introduced his son.

“Majestic, aren’t they?”

Johnny tilts his head, eyebrows furrowing slightly. “I’m surprised they’re not hibernating during this time.”

“Actually, that’s a myth,” Kun explains, pocketing his hands. “Bears don’t actually hibernate, they just slow down during winter. It’s called ‘torpor’. You can think of it as… you know how we tend to get lazy, or prefer to stay in when it rains or gets cold? It’s kind of like that. But unlike humans, they don’t need to perform normal functions like eat and excrete.”

“Ahh, is that so,” Johnny nods, impressed. “That’s pretty cool. You sure do know your bear stuff.”

“You could say they’re my favorite,” Kun chuckles. Another grizzly splashes up from the water, wading towards the shore. It shakes off water, and the other bear from earlier playfully paws at it. “Honestly, I’ve never seen grizzly bears in person. These in particular are rescues; apparently they were becoming too comfortable with humans, so they were taken in.”

“As expected, you’re really smart,” Johnny teases, punching Kun’s arm lightly before he can even think of holding himself back. Ah, am I getting too chummy? Johnny sees Kun look down, almost embarrassed. Johnny sighs. “Well, go on then, David Attenborough. Tell me more bear facts.”

Kun seems to light up.

“Did you know that grizzlies are actually exceptional swimmers? The humps on their backs are large muscles that are used to power their front legs, not to mention their great amount of body fat helps keep them afloat…”

—

It takes a large bite of the critically acclaimed Jackson Hole house-blend beef burger—with extra bacon and tlc, of course—for Johnny’s stomach’s growls of protest to be silenced. Beside him, Kun munches on some honey-glazed buffalo chicken and fries, albeit in a more well-mannered fashion. Yet they both moan out loud in bliss, almost in sync as they let their heads fall back helplessly.

Johnny’s eyes roll to the back of his head. Ah, this is the life.

Meat grease trickles down the side of Johnny’s mouth, and he’s a second too late to catch it, and it leaves an unsightly mark on the front of his hoodie. He makes a show of trying to rub it off with tissue until the paper rips, to no avail. “Ah, shit…”

“It’s just a stain, what are you—” Kun bites his tongue when he notices Johnny’s teary eyes. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Was the food not good after all?

“Nothing, it’s just,” Johnny blubbers, huffing in defeat and eyeing the stain like it’s insulting him. “I just. This is. It’s not mine. I just borrowed this.” It was my (ex) boyfriend’s. One of the few pieces of him that I still have left.

Maybe Johnny's still not brave enough to stand on his own, after all.

“I can’t return it like this,” Johnny pouts, exhaling shakily. Am I really about to cry over fucking burger grease?

“Heyyy,” Kun murmurs, reaching out and awkwardly patting Johnny’s arm. He attempts to assuage Johnny’s glassy eyes with a tight-lipped, empathetic smile. “Hey, now. It’s going to be okay. I’ll help you clean it out, I promise. I’m like, a master cleaner, you’ll see! It’ll be like it’s brand new, and your friend won’t suspect a thing.”

Johnny sniffles, staring intently at his half-finished burger. He looks down when he feels Kun place some paper towels over his collar. Somehow, that only makes his frown deepen, though sentimentally this time.

“There. No more stains,” Kun pats the tissues down, smiling proudly at his handiwork. “But more food for Johnny. Okay?”

Blinking back tears and internally scolding himself for reacting stupidly, Johnny continues devouring his meal, maybe a little sadly, stain already almost forgotten from Kun’s tenderness.

“Now hurry up. We still have a party to attend.”

—

New York seems to come to life at nighttime.

The wind picks up as the temperature drops, yet that doesn’t stop nyctophiles from their usual nightly activities, the streets already sprawling with party-goers. Before the clock even properly hits closing hours for the corporate offices, the pubs, bars, and clubs are already opening their doors to weary full-time workers or burned-out youth who are simply looking for a good time.

Though to Johnny’s relief, their final destination for the day is surprisingly more of an unhinged cafe than an actual nightclub, with actually good live music and tasteful performances. If the haphazardly impastoed brown exterior walls crowned by a gaudy, comically arranged Cafe Wha? typography across a well-aged neon signage isn’t anything to come off of, then the steep staircase leading down to the basement space painted in pure black, making it seem like a disco-lit cave definitely is. Dim, blue and green strobe lights cast a dreamlike halo on the patrons’ silhouettes, rendering them ambiguous blobs littered across the room. If they didn’t speak or move, Johnny would’ve believed them to be oddly-shaped, gigantic stalagmites.

He feels a hand on his wrist, blinks away the stupor. “Kun,” Johnny says, looking down at his hand, but Kun doesn’t let go.

“Shall we get drinks?” Kun asks, seeming to think nothing of the gesture. Points to the bar, barely visible past the human stalagmites.

“Okay.”

Johnny reads over the menu, which seems even more garishly designed than the establishment itself, so much so that he has to squint to be able to perceive it in the light (or the lack thereof).

“A sangria? ” Johnny intones, watching the bartender slide Kun’s drink over with practiced ease. Kun returns the sassy quirk of the brow, the way the condensation drips down Kun’s prominently-veined grip around the glass discouraging Johnny’s smirk a little.

“Don’t tell me you’re the type to find a drink ‘girly’ just ‘cause it has fruit,” Kun counters, taking a sip. He peers through the brim of his glass, hiding his own smirk as he watches Johnny barely catch the glass sliding in his direction. “Not when you’re having lager.”

Johnny rolls his eyes, nursing the beer. Enjoys the way it smoothly slides down his throat and simultaneously cools and warms his insides. “Fine, I can’t really hold my alcohol. So what?”

Kun laughs, pushing off the counter and starting to walk towards the stage, just as the preceding stand-up comedian bows and walks off. “Let’s go, I heard the next performers are really good.”

Apparently, tonight is one of Cafe Wha?’s Hootenanny Nights , Kun tells Johnny as they find a good spot near the front. There’s no pre-organized setlist, and performers are called randomly from the audience. Typically, this is when aspiring artists are given the opportunity to show off their craft.

If not for the confidence with which the frontman—presumed, until he steps to the side and unzips his guitar case, revealing a shiny black bass adorned with stenciled silver and red runes—of the next band carries themself, Johnny wouldn’t think twice about the group indeed being new to the scene: the rhythm guitarist, a short man with sharp eyebrows and unbelievably long lashes, keeps trying to awkwardly adjust his mic stand (and failing); the drummer, with wide eyes and long, dark and unruly hair, walks in with a posture that Johnny can only describe as ‘Poptropica neck’; and the lead guitarist, seedy-eyed and elf-eared, seems to have forgotten they are going to perform next until the bassist begins tuning, and he pockets his phone, scrambling towards his instrument and starting to fiddle with the effects pedal.

Oh dear, Johnny grimaces, quietly praying for the band.

When the Elf Boy starts plucking the intro notes of their first song, Johnny’s jaw drops, and he’s forced to swallow his judgment. At first, he starts slowly, the sound mellow and nearly lost to the low chatter of the crowd, and then he goes faster, effortlessly so, the sound bouncing against the walls of the underground cavern. A haunting melody causing goosebumps to erupt across Johnny’s arms. The lead guitarist slides his fingers across the fretboard, stoic as ever, as if his hands aren’t dancing on clouds and prompting the angels to sing.

He drags out the last note with a bend of the string, and before it completely fades out the rest of the band joins in, the instruments converging with the strong distortion of the guitar and explosive clash of the cymbals.

Just as Johnny thought that he can’t get any more impressed, Mr. Mic Stand Struggles opens his mouth and leans towards the mic.

“ Hello my friend, we meet again.
It's been a while, where should we begin?
Feels like forever.
Within my heart are memories
Of perfect love that you gave to me;
Oh, I remember—
When you are with me, I'm free
I'm careless, I believe
Above all the others we'll fly
This brings tears to my eyes
My sacrifice.”

Surely, tears must’ve filled Johnny’s eyes, because when he turns towards Kun to gauge his reaction, his sight blurry at the edges, through prismatic hues he can tell Kun is grinning in wonder and pride up at the stage. Johnny follows his gaze, and watches the vocalist pressed against the mic like it’s a lover, whispering sweet nothings in a way that almost feels like it should be illegal to witness. His voice hasn’t the same grit and depth as the original, on the contrary, it’s much higher and more nasally, and has a character Johnny can’t quite put his finger on that simply stimulates the senses.

The drummer beats on the snare and cymbals like he’s riding out an adrenaline high, repeatedly on the toms, on the snare once more, the crash cymbals a punctuation echoed by the fading strum of the guitar. But instead of the lead vocalist, this time, the bassist steps forward, letting his instrument hang low from his shoulders as he folds his ring-filled fingers over the mic. When he sings the chorus with a voice akin to a siren’s and the instruments leave him room for his prayer, a spell falls over the audience and everyone sings along, Johnny and Kun included.

There’s a beat of silence, and the instruments reconvene and they sing the chorus one last time, ending their first song with a literal bang. The cheers of the crowd are deafening. Johnny feels like he’s slowly waking from a dream.

As soon as the screams and applause die down, the vocalist steps towards the mic, catching his breath as he speaks. “How are we doing tonight, Cafe Wha??”

The patrons holler in response.

“Thank you so, so much for such a warm welcome, the energy is unbelievable.”

Behind him, someone steps onstage, plugging in the keyboard, and starting to freestyle a few notes, eliciting a few excited whoops. The pianist seems to be way younger than the rest of the band, his wild, curly hair streaked with blonde highlights, and a thick curtain of bangs hide his eyes.

“Some of you may know us already, but we’re seeing a lot of new faces here tonight,” the vocalist continues, gesturing towards his bandmates. “I’m Dejun. We have Winwin on the EG—” And the lead guitarist with the delicate features and blank expression plucks a few chords, driving the crowd wild.

“There’s m’boy on the drums, let’s give it up for Hendery!” The drummer shows off with a simple beat, albeit with enough energy to power an entire village. Dejun quickly turns to his right. “Then there’s everyone’s favorite little devil, Ten, on the bass.” And the presumed frontman smirks, following Hendery’s beat with trills, slides, and staccato. A classic 70’s style funk groove.

“And of course,” Dejun continues, tone lilting. “There’s our hidden ace, Yangyang, on the keyboard. Take it away!”

The pianist joins the rest of the instrumentalists, playing around a little with his bandmates before ending at a full stop. The audience seems to collectively hold their breath, before starting with the cheers again. Johnny has to admit, they’re even more impressive with the way they control the crowd.

Once the audience settles down again, Yangyang begins with a solemn, iconic set of notes that any kid who has gone through a gothic phase would remember. Johnny’s eyes twinkle in anticipation when he sees the pianist adjust his mic. Holy shit?

“We are the Visions, and here’s In the End! ”

After playing two more popular songs in their own unique punk rendition, the Visions stall as the  audience calls for an encore, and the venue practically vibrates under their demand that the band has to oblige for just one more.

“Alright, alright,” Dejun steps up to the mic with a breathless laugh, brushing one hand through his sweat-matted hair. “Since you all asked so nicely.”

Excited screams emit from the crowd, and Johnny’s so sure they’re one commotion away from the ground opening from underneath them, burying them deeper into hell.

“But,” the man lifts a finger to silence the audience, quirking one perfect brow— What is it with New Yorkers and their perfect eyebrows? Johnny thinks, looking down sadly at his empty glass. Was it his third already? Fifth? He doesn’t know, but everything’s starting to look blurry around the edges, and his emotions are threatening to spill over like beer down his parched throat.—“But, I would like to especially request someone from the audience.”

A collective gasp sweeps the audience, some hands lifting up to volunteer. But the tiny man only shakes his finger, smiling apologetically at the hopeful crowd members.

“Actually, we have one more band member I haven’t introduced,” Dejun says, and as if everyone else knew something Johnny didn’t, the proverbial Red Sea parts, and the spotlight shines in Johnny’s direction. It’s a miracle he still hasn’t fallen to his knees. What? “We wouldn’t ever dream of performing in front of crowds like this one, if not for him who brought us together. Everyone, please give it up for our leader, our vocalist, guitarist, pianist, and really, is there anything he can’t do— KUN! ”

Johnny turns to his companion in horror-esque slow-mo, gaping at him like he just grew a second head. Around them, there are mixed reactions: some laugh, some squeal, some just sound confused. Kun protests, his voice lost in the noise as he waves his hands bashfully and fights a shit-eating grin.

“Please, give him a hand!” Dejun shouts through the microphone, starting to clap, which the audience easily follows. Kun stalls making his way to the stage, looking back at Johnny, reluctant about leaving him behind. But somehow, Dejun has other ideas.

“Looks like he also came with a friend, so why don’t you come up here too, sir?”

Now Johnny really feels like blacking out. He points to himself, looking around just in case Dejun is referring to somebody else. “Yeah, you! Come on up, don’t be shy.”

Johnny doesn’t know how he manages to get up there without making such a fool of himself, but somehow it’s the band that’s left wonderstruck as soon as the colorful luminaires beams down on his face. Even though he’s pretty sure he looks like a drunk fuck blinded stupid by the lights.

“ Holy shit ,” Johnny hears the bassist, Ten, speak into his mic for the first time. The crowd seems to agree, hollering and whistling and applauding. Johnny shields his face from the lights, squinting. What the fuck is happening? 

“Wow,” Dejun whistles. “A beautiful friend you brought here, Kun. Everyone give it up for —? ”

“J-Johnny,” the bumbling giant manages, leaning in to whisper into Dejun’s ear so he can hear him better, nearly knocking the tiny man over under his weight.

“Johnny!” Dejun repeats, fanning himself jokingly once Johnny pulls away. The audience erupts in laughter. “Tell me, Mr. Johnny, with that beautiful, deep voice of yours, do you happen to sing?”

Cue war flashbacks to running late for class because of full-on concerts in the shower, and coming home even later during nights spent in karaokes with Jaehyun after classes. Johnny gulps, eyeing the mic pointed at him like it’s a gun.

“Uh, maybe?”

“Great!” The main vocalist turns back with a wild grin that makes Johnny nervous. He shouts something to Yangyang, who nods in understanding, presses a few buttons on the panel over his keyboard. “Cafe Wha?, once again thanks for having us. Here’s a slow one to end our set. Count us in ‘Dery, will you?”

The drummer taps his drumsticks together, the toms, and fading out quietly on the crash. The piano comes in, and almost immediately, Johnny perks up in recognition.

This has got to be a joke.

He remembers heads in laps, glow-in-the-dark stars stuck on the ceiling, reaching for a sky that seems limitless. Slow dancing in a cluttered bedroom, stolen kisses at 3 AM, dimpled cheeks. Held hands promised to never let go.

Johnny swallows. I will not cry.

“ Remember all the things we wanted?” Dejun sings, eyes closed as he steps up to the microphone. “ Now all our memories, they're haunted; we were always meant to say goodbye.”

“Even without fists held high,” Ten follows, voice no less alluring than before, but far more heartbreaking. “It never would've worked out right; we were never meant for do or die.”

“ I didn't want us to burn out,” Kun croons, a hand held carefully over the stand. His voice has a nasal lilt to it, with the right amount of grain and depth that differentiates it from Dejun's. “ I, I didn't come here to hurt you, now I can't stop. ”

In his periphery, Johnny sees Kun give him an encouraging nod, so with shaking hands he steps up to sing.

“ I want you to know,” Johnny sings, holding onto the mic stand like it can help steady the shakiness in his voice. “ That it doesn't matter where we take this road, but someone's gotta go.”

Johnny’s voice cracks near the end, but the other members step in to harmonize, even Yangyang. Johnny intuitively steps back, just to blend in the background and hide from the lights. He feels his eyes brim with hot tears, and the lump in his throat threatens to choke him.

He feels a warm hand enclose around his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He looks down, back up at the blonde singing effortlessly into the mic, and a singular tear escapes. 

“ And I want you to know—you couldn't have loved me better. But I want you to move on, so I'm already gone. ”

Johnny rejoins the band for the rest of the song, feeling slightly better with Kun’s hand held comfortably in his.

Contrary to the atmosphere they gave off during their exceptional performance, the Visions are otherwise the dorks Johnny impressed them to be.

Johnny meets Ten first, who makes a beeline for the bar as soon as the performance is over. There’s a sweating glass of Boulevardier in his hand, and he’s swirling the bright red-orange liquid around like he’s performing an incantation. Kun leads Johnny over, only letting go of his hand to put it over the bassist’s shoulder.

“Johnny, meet Ten, my best friend.” Kun grins, slapping the raven-haired boy’s back and making him keel over. “Tennie, meet Johnny—”

“—your boyfriend? ” Ten interjects with a quirk of one pierced brow, thin lips upturned to one side into a cheeky smirk. Kun slaps his back again, less playful and more reproachful. Ten elbows him as revenge, and they take turns swatting at each other until Johnny shuffles awkwardly.

“My bad,” Ten chuckles as he notices Johnny fidgeting. He holds out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, totally-not-Kun’s-boyfriend.”

“Y-Yeah,” Johnny takes the proffered hand, grip a little too tight from nerves. From up close, Ten is even more beautiful, his eyes lined daintily with kohl, ears adorned with uncountable piercings that glimmer even in the dark. His sleeveless black shirt is ripped to oblivion that it barely covers his torso, and Johnny tries not to stare too long at the huge, geometric tattoo on his ribs that peek through everytime Ten moves. “You too. I’m really not his boyfriend though.”

“Sure,” Ten murmurs, taking a sip of his drink and smiling knowingly behind the glass.

Then comes Dejun with an arm slung around Hendery, both absolutely drenched in sweat from head to toe. They came from the dancefloor, they said, making Johnny wonder how they still have all that energy after performing a whole setlist. Soon after, Yangyang slinks into the bar stool next to Ten, seemingly demure when he’s introduced to Johnny, but a little more animated as soon as he gets into conversation with his bandmates. Winwin walks over last, only nodding curtly at the group, and somehow that’s enough to know everything about the quiet guitarist.

Johnny learns that they’re actually university mates, mostly if not all with inclination towards the arts. Dejun and Yangyang are both Vocal Performance majors, Winwin and Hendery are Dance majors, and Ten is an Architecture major. They’re all working together for Kun’s play, the aspiring dramatist says, and the Visions was created on a whim one night after rehearsals. High off of alcohol-induced confidence, they impulsively performed for their first Hootenanny Nights at the cafe, and they’ve been playing together ever since.

Over a few rounds of drinks, the group comes around to talking about their performance. Johnny voices out how absolutely blown away he was, how the Visions should be in a full house, sold-out concert. Dejun returns the flattery by complimenting Johnny’s singing, who dismisses him, until Ten joins in, saying how he’s made for the stage. Red from embarrassment and inebriation, Johnny could only hide into the crook of his arm.

Yangyang perks up then, his voice the loudest it’s been since Johnny met him, suggesting they move on to another bar. It takes a beat for Johnny to realize the invitation, and even longer to register the hopeful looks cast his way.

Kun grabs a visibly swaying Johnny’s elbow, laughing lowly in amusement.

“Sorry guys,” he apologizes with a shrug, pulling Johnny to his side to steady him. “We’ll have to take a rain check.”

“Aw, really?” Winwin pouts, looking up from his phone. “I was thinking Johnny should meet my boyfriend since he’ll be joining us in a bit. I’ve got a feeling they’ll get along very well.”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” adds Hendery, who seems to have taken a particular fondness towards the Chicagoan.

Kun shakes his head no, smiling sadly.

“Unfortunately,” Ten pipes in, “Kun wants the fun all to himself.”

Kun glares at him, menacing to lunge, but Johnny teeters beside him with an incoherent groan, burying his face in the crook of Kun’s neck. Shooting daggers in Ten’s direction for the last time, Kun readjusts his arm, snaking it around Johnny’s waist.

“Sorry again,” Kun sighs, beginning to steer Johnny towards the exit. “Next time, everyone’s drinks are on me.”

—

Sunday morning greets Johnny with a sharp wave of nausea, and if not for the thin stripe of daylight peeking through the curtain directly passing through his line of sight, he would’ve opted to sleep in some more. He rolls over with a groan, blinking away sleep, to no avail.

He lifts his head a few inches from the pillow, sees the piece of paper tucked under a tall glass of water on the bedside table.

Johnny,
I hope you were able to rest well.
Here’s a paracetamol, you can take it without eating to help fend off the hangover.
But please do have something before heading out.

Even without the pretentious Shakespearean speech that’s somehow become the agreed format of their then exchange—thanks to Johnny’s bitches broken hearts pining—Johnny easily recognizes the letter as Kun’s. Probably from the finely-written script and the characteristic lack of a sign-off. He catches himself before a fond grin spreads like wildfire, and the self-inflicted bitch slap upon realization momentarily wakes him.

Am I seriously being swayed by this?? Johnny downs the water and shoots up from the bed, angrily marching towards the kitchenette. The bar is in hell!

Apparently, medicine doesn’t work like magic, and the queasiness catches up to him. He leans over the sink with a groan, knuckles turning white from how strongly he grips the tiled countertop.

Still, it would be a little embarrassing to stand him up… Johnny deliberates, putting his head under running water. It’s cold enough to sting, but it helps keep the hangover at bay. Although Kun technically owes it to Johnny to make it up to him, he can’t help but still feel bad about spending his money. Especially since he went out of his way to plan a whole trip for Johnny, at the expense of his own precious time and finances, when he could’ve easily cut contact, skipped town, literally anything just to get Johnny out of his hair. Moreover, Johnny knows spending a day in all alone would only drive him further into depression, and remind him all too well of his loneliness.

Hm.

It’s no big deal, Johnny concludes, looking through the kitchenette window as water drips from his hair down to the side of his face. I’ll show up for a bit, cough like crazy or some shit. Then he’ll have no choice but to send me home.

It’s no biggie.

It is a biggie, Johnny realizes later on, when he sees Kun standing outside his door like a pitiful stray animal begging to be let in from the cold.

Johnny was preparing his lines in his head then, scripted whimpers of despair ready on cue. He swings his door open and just barely avoids a fist to his face, and it’s Kun about to knock on his door.

“I brought soup,” he says sheepishly, moving the offending hand away and holding up a plastic bag with the other, condensation already forming from the unimaginable fresh-from-the-pot warmth of a wonton noodle soup. Almost like he knew that despite the reminder, Johnny still wouldn’t have eaten a thing.

Johnny feels himself salivating. God dammit.

“Thought you might need it?”

Johnny curses mentally. Kun makes it so hard to be an asshole.

They eat together in silence, until Kun breaks it with small talk, bringing up their itinerary for the day.

“Are you feeling any better?” Kun starts, looking up from his now empty styrofoam bowl. Something about him is different today, Johnny realizes, and his stare might’ve lingered a little too long trying to figure out what it is, because Kun is turning away, flushed bright red down to his neck.

“You’re not wearing your glasses,” Johnny replies instead, a small, entertained smile playing on his lips.

“Uh, yeah?” Kun’s still hiding his face. “I wear contacts from time to time.”

Johnny leans back, stretching like a satisfied cat. “You look good.”

Hairy caterpillar brows shoot up, lost under the blonde curtain that Kun seems to have also decided to let down into bangs for once. If it was even still possible, he blushes a deeper shade, standing up abruptly and pretending to clean up.

“Since you seem perfectly fine,” Kun grumbles, to which Johnny can’t help but snort. “We should probably go.”

One of the things Johnny has come to admire about Kun is his incredible sense and attention to detail. He’s not sure if it’s all according to great planning or if Kun’s really that magical, but their Sunday schedule ends up being a little friendlier towards his hangover. So much so that when Kun asks him if he’s up for visiting a few museums, Johnny actually nearly gives him a big, fat, sloppy kiss.

They visit the greatly esteemed Metropolitan Museum of Art first, which takes pride in its collection of rare and exquisite artworks from all over the world that date as far back as 5,000 years. Inevitably, there’s an insane queue at the entrance, but Kun got them skip-the-line admissions from a friend that interns at The Met. Johnny likes the Modern and Contemporary collection in particular, naturally, as a photographer who is very particular with minimal while experimental and dramatic forms. He also quite enjoyed the Asian Art section, since growing up in a foreign land he hasn’t exactly been exposed to that part of his identity, so he was genuinely pleased peeking into his ancestors’ culture.

A mere minute away, they go to The Guggenheim next. The structure alone is a spectacle in its own right, having been designed and meticulously supervised by Frank Lloyd Wright himself, right from its building material to its iconic circular shape. Its collection of modern art is no less impressive—most notably Vasily Kandinsky’s paintings arranged in reverse chronology up the concentric structure, and the Thannhauser Collection that houses modern greats like Degas, Manet, van Gogh, and Picasso.

Lastly, ever the modern art cognoscente, Johnny finds the Museum of Modern Art to be his favorite from their itinerary. It boasts of having the world’s greatest collection of contemporary art, with works from van Gogh, Monet, Picasso, Kahlo, Warhol, and Dalí, as well as other displays of photography, film, architecture, design, media, and performance art.

The whole day was mostly spent in silence, other than the audio guides droning away in their earphones, and fleeting exchanges when Kun has side comments or when Johnny has questions, or wants to skip to another exhibit. Though really, if he has the chance to view every exhibit and examine every single piece without ever getting tired, Johnny would never dream of moving past any displays.

They immerse in Basquiat, Bernini, Cézanne, Chagall, Donatello, Duchamp, van Dyck, Gauguin, Goya, Haring, Klimt, de Kooning, Matisse, Magritte, Michelangelo, Mondrian, Monet, Pollock, Raffaello, Rembrandt, Renoir, Rodin, Rothko, Rubens, Seurat, da Vinci, and Toulouse-Lautrec, to name a few. To say Johnny’s senses are completely overloaded by the end is an understatement; the reality of seeing the masterpieces in person alone is mind-blowing, the diversity of color, form, and intricacy sending him down what he can only describe as an aesthetic acid trip.

When Kun finally announces that that’s the extent of his plan for the day, Johnny lets out a genuine sigh of relief. Not that he hated their trip, just that he’s never viewed that many artworks in a single day before. He’s tired and overwhelmed, but in a good way.

“You alright?” Kun asks, handing Johnny a hotdog in a bun, which the latter gladly wolfs down after a grateful nod.

They’re sitting on a bench at Washington Square Park, which they decide is a good place to wind down after the long day they’ve just had. They’ve been here before, Johnny realizes, the day he met Kun for real the first time, and he was unexpectedly offered an all-expense paid trip to make up for the false hope he was given.

Not that it matters anymore, since Johnny’s actually having fun spending time with Kun—not that he’d ever say it out loud—and wasn’t really expecting— hoping, more like—to magically get back with Jaehyun once he sets foot in New York.

Anyway, he doesn’t mind being spoiled like this. Rarely does a handsome stranger that doesn’t secretly want to collect your viscera in jars come up to him and offer him a free pass to paradise. He might as well enjoy the ride before he has to open his eyes and realize it was only just a dream.

He wasn’t able to appreciate Washington Square Park before, but with the sun idling a bright tangerine a little over New York’s skyline before it bids its ultimate farewell and make way for the moon, Johnny can better see the sprawling greenery that surrounds the center of the park, converging around a water fountain where most of the families, friends and lovers present are gathered. Then there’s the notable Washington Arch, standing tall and dominant at the northern gateway.

Just a few feet from where Johnny and Kun are sitting and a little ways in front of the arch, a crowd begins to form. The taller of the pair cranes his neck curiously, trying to peek past the audience. 

“What’s going on over there?” Johnny asks, hotdog momentarily forgotten.

Kun follows his line of sight, shrugging. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees mayonnaise smeared on the side of Johnny’s mouth, instinctively swiping it off and licking the remnants on the pad of his thumb. “No idea.”

Johnny’s too lost in his interest to even notice the oddly intimate gesture. “Huh.”

“Wanna check it out?”

The closer they get, the more the explosive bass and familiar, scintillating rhythm of pop music amidst the buzzing crowd becomes evident to their ears. Busking isn’t anything new, particularly in a city renowned as a beacon for thespians of all sorts, but the current spectacle is quite curious. There are performers at the center, but every now and then, an audience member would join in, as if a flash mob, but it’s seldom the same people so it would be presumptuous to say it’s all scripted.

Kun doesn’t quite understand the foreign language, but judging from the way Johnny’s eyes light up, he’s more cognizant of the event. 

“What… is happening, exactly?” It’s strange being the clueless one for once.

Johnny inhales sharply, dramatically holding a hand over his mouth. As if Kun just insulted his mother. “You don’t know what random play dance is???”

“No?”

“Oh man—”

A cassette recorder clicks, and grainy orchestral music begins to blast through the speakers. A woman’s voice hums, soon joined by another, and a collective gasp sweeps the crowd. Johnny’s eyes become wide as saucers, and Kun slinks back in embarrassment of his ignorance. Am I the only one who doesn’t know?

“ Red Velvet! ” Johnny squeals almost at the same time a voice murmurs the confectionery name through the speakers, and before he knows it, Kun’s being dragged towards the center by his golden retriever of a companion.

“Wait, I don’t—”

“Just follow my lead!” Johnny laughs, beginning to do a series of complicated movements that Kun definitely cannot follow even if he broke his bones attempting them. Fortunately, a great portion of the audience has joined in so they’re barely conspicuous even if they did badly. Still, it doesn’t help Kun’s case, the blonde effectively sweating buckets and flustered from head to toe as he stumbles around like a puppet on a string.

At the pre-chorus, the participants form an inverted V at the center, and Johnny pulls Kun behind him to follow suit. Kun tries to copy Johnny rolling his neck in time with each spin of his index finger, but he’s so sure he probably looks like a bobblehead with broken springs.

He finds that he doesn’t care, because Johnny’s smiling so widely, and it’s probably the first time Kun’s heard him laugh so genuinely since they’ve met.

Johnny’s screaming expletives by the time the song changes, and he practically throws them back into the audience, one arm slung heavily around Kun’s shoulder. Beside him, Kun’s in no better state, bending over and clutching his stomach.

“I have no idea what the hell I just did,” Kun wheezes, putting his hands over his knees.

“Me neither,” Johnny shouts over the music, equally breathless. “My balls are fucking sweating to hell.”

Concerned parents standing nearby regard them with disdain, covering their kids’ ears and speed-walking away, but the pair only laughs harder, falling to the ground in uncontrollable exhilaration.

Johnny watches Kun feign annoyance as he wipes away sweat and straightens the creases on his clothes. But his dimples peek through pudding cheeks as he fights a smile, betraying his amusement, and Johnny finds it increasingly difficult to conceal his own grin.

“So,” he starts, regarding Kun through half-moons. “Same time again tomorrow?”

Kun seems to belatedly realize the proposition, smile fading away when he finally looks back at Johnny. Johnny recognizes the turmoil behind his chocolate irises, and his expression drops.

He props himself up on his elbows. “What’s the matter?”

“I,” Kun hesitates, fiddling with the zipper of his jacket distractedly, seeming to have an internal battle with himself whether he should just say it or not. “Have to put off our little field trip. Finals are coming up so I’ll be up to my neck with work. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Johnny can’t even hide his disappointment but he tries, though the resulting smile may be a little crooked. “Th–that’s okay! I’m cool with that! I can go around on my own. I’m not a kid, y’know.” He rambles, waving dismissively. “‘Sides, I’ve been basically stuck with you since I got here, ugh. Not enough Johnny time.”

Johnny fakes a laugh, but it does nothing to assure Kun.

“I’ll be fine,” he scoffs, elbowing Kun’s ribs.

“I’ll try to finish up early. I’ll find time. I promise.”

“You don’t have to,” Johnny chuckles, pushing off the ground. He pretends to brush himself off, but swipes away at the underside of his eyes as soon as he’s away from Kun’s view— Why the fuck am I tearing up? “We’re not even friends.”

Kun reaches out to touch his shoulder, but Johnny’s already marching back to the dormitory.

—

Johnny read in an article once that having a routine helps improve mental health. He called bullshit on it, of course, being quite the spontaneous person himself, he thought routines only tied him down.

Yet he can’t help but be dismayed when he comes down to the lobby and finds no Kun lounging on one of the lobby couches, distracted by something on his phone while he waits for Johnny. Rather, there’s only Taeil at the receptionist’s desk, bright and welcoming as always. Somehow, Johnny feels like rushing his morning coffee and perhaps adding an extra spritz of the Versace perfume his mom got him for his eighteenth—and which he thinks is so damn expensive, he only ever uses it for ‘special occasions’—was all for naught.

Still, Johnny gives a few light knocks on the wood in greeting, leaving behind a confused Taeil as he pushes past the double doors without waiting for a response.

Johnny decides that Monday calls for a Confessions of a Shopaholic sort of day. If chick flick protagonists can splurge to their hearts’ content, why can’t he? Better to be deep in debt than ramen cups and misery, right?

His first stop is an establishment called The Market, straightforward epithet in bright, bold red letters across a triangular slab awning that reminds Johnny of marquee signages on cinema façades. He steps past the threshold and his senses are immediately ambushed by vellichor and the bustle of activity. Rows of clothes racks, shelves full of jewelry, hand-made crafts, books, artifacts, and other collectibles are visible from where he stands, the displayed goods seemingly going on for miles. He witnesses artisans at work, from dressmakers sewing the most unique garments to jewellers crafting eccentric ornaments. Johnny opts for some art prints, a vintage photography book, a pair of thick, animal print-rimmed sunglasses, and some clothings including a pair of wide-leg jeans made from colorful patchwork.

Across 159 Bleecker and down the street is Generation Records, where Johnny takes his time sifting through the wide collection of music merchandise. Beyond the red lintel and black exterior are rows upon rows of shelves housing CDs, records and vinyl, while shirts and bags hang on the windows for display. A huge, silver pipe lining the entire ceiling is supersaturated with stickers of all kinds in the same circus layout that the shop seems to have adopted. Posters of varying sizes span the four walls, some encased in frames due to its value, Johnny presumes.

It’s the first time in a while since he got to New York that Johnny’s traversing the city alone, but so they say, sometimes your own company is the best kind of company. And for the first time in a long time, Johnny’s on his own but Jaehyun’s never crossed his mind once, not even while he flips through vinyls of Mary J. Blige and Boyz II Men.

Johnny feels his soul leave his body when his phone vibrates in his pocket, and he nearly falls down the rickety stairs that lead to the shop’s lower floor. Grabbing onto the railing for good measure, he takes one glance at the caller ID, and practically flies out the door.

“Oh wow, hey!” Kun greets, brightening at Johnny’s approaching footsteps. “That was fast, did you run here?”

“Nah,” Johnny dismisses, feigning nonchalance even though he’s trying to catch his breath. “I was just around the neighborhood, so. Had no trouble finding my way back.”

“Sure, sure,” Kun chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. He pushes off the wall of the building he was leaning against, dusting himself off. “Have you had lunch? I know a great place.”

Kun brings Johnny to the famed Bleecker Street Pizza, where they manage to secure a table just before more patrons pour into the establishment, at an outside table with a perfect view of the street. Practically visible scent marks waft from the kitchen as a customer exits just as the pair enters, and Johnny’s mouth waters. Kun decided to order two of every kind so they could try it all out, but Johnny personally liked Nona Marie and Pepperoni the best. This time, grease stains were avoided, and there was only cheese, comfortable conversation, and having a good time with a certain wide-eyed aspiring playwright.

Until Kun rolls back his sleeve to check his watch, swallowing his mouthful of White and inhaling sharply through his teeth.

“Listen, I have to get back to uni.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry, I just—”

“Oh no, it’s fine. You did say you were busy, and I also still have other things to do so like—”

Johnny pretends to clean invisible messes, busying himself to avoid having to awkwardly bid Kun farewell again. But the latter lightly touches his wrist, and Johnny jumps in his seat, electrocuted.

“—But,” Kun interrupts, clearing his throat. Avoids Johnny’s eyes. “You can come with me and watch, or something? Unless–u-unless you’re busy, like you said—”

Johnny tries his best not to leap at Kun and pull him into an embrace, and opts for a crooked smile instead.

Kun tours Johnny through the Steinhardt building of the esteemed New York University, pointing out the various departments and facilities as they pass them by. It houses mostly arts and communications—like Vocal Performance, which Dejun and Yangyang major in—humanities, and other social science courses, but the performance and other interactive art majors—which includes Kun under Musical Theatre Writing, and Winwin and Hendery under Dance—are at the Tisch, Kun explains.

“Then Ten’s at the Institute of Fine Arts,” he adds, answering Johnny’s unasked curiosity. Their group’s a little spread out in the vast university campus, but somehow they’ve met, and that’s all that matters. Johnny can only nod and whistle in amazement.

“Wait, if you’re stationed at the other building, what are we doing here?”

Kun beams, and leads him into a door marked Frederick Loewe Theatre, the entrance opening into an auditorium that accommodates over 300 attendees. The theatre seats, finely upholstered in bright red, are arranged in consecutive straight rows facing the stage. The matching crimson curtains, hanging from a proscenium arch, are drawn, revealing students milling about onstage, some working on props while others read over the script.

Johnny’s heart leaps into his throat when he recognizes some of them, but he fights the urge to shout lest he disturb the students at work. Though it seems a certain someone beats him to it, waving excitedly and jumping up and down in all his short yet energetic stature.

Dejun, bless him.

“Johnny, Kun! Over here!” he shouts, reminding Johnny of an hyperactive puppy. He only calms down once the pair are looking up at him from the ground level. “Hello, gege , hi! Good to see you here! Wait, you wouldn’t mind me calling you gege, right?”

Johnny shoots Kun a questioning look.

“It means ‘older brother’, or an older guy friend you’re close to.”

Promptly, Johnny returns the smile and nods at Dejun, who lights up further at the approval.

Kun fills Johnny in about his final project, and how being allowed the privilege to perform at the Loewe is kind of a big deal. Usually, graduate recitals and other non-mainstage performances are held in the much smaller Black Box Theatre, which holds no more than 20% of the capacity of the Loewe’s. Consequently, Kun seems to also bear the burden of selling seats for his play, which he’s visibly nervous about, Johnny notes upon observing the fidgety hands and uneasy laughter.

In one corner, they see Winwin practicing choreography with Hendery, though the latter seems too diverted to properly focus, earning him a scolding or two from the older. Ten greets them from atop a scaffolding, inhumanly contorting backwards and hanging off a beam with his thighs as his only leverage, sending Johnny a playful wink, which he returns with a worried grimace that he tries hard to fight off into a grin. Yangyang, on the other hand, stands by him, on the floor like a normal person, wordlessly waving a paintbrush. Kun tuts and tries to scrub off the paint that got on his cheek, which Johnny quietly thinks is adorable.

“You want to have a look around?” Kun prompts, nudging Johnny’s side. “I have to get back to work. I’ll join you after, yeah?”

He nods like a bobblehead, and Kun pats his back, jogging off to somewhere. Leaving Johnny alone again.

With nowhere else to go, he decides to walk back to Kun’s friends to check up on them. He runs into Dejun again, who enlists his help in rehearsing his lines. As always, his voice is unparalleled in terms of timbre and technique, but Johnny finds his acting still seems a little lacking in personality, so wanting to be helpful, Johnny tries giving him pointers, at which the younger proceeds to get a little self-conscious. Johnny assures him that it’s normal since he’s just starting out, but then Hendery walks over without warning, getting into a heated whisper-argument with the Vocal Performance Major, and Johnny suddenly feels like he’s not supposed to be there.

He lumbers over to Ten and Yangyang, who are working on what appears to be building façades that comprise a town center, the main setting of Kun’s play. He chats with them a little, and he’s glad to see that Yangyang is opening up to him even more, but eventually, he decides to part ways with them, since Ten starts to talk more and work less the more Johnny hangs around.

Lastly, he drops by Winwin’s corner, where the latter seems to have taken a break and is glued to his phone again. Johnny tries initiating small talk, but the classical dancer only ever replies curtly, and once he pockets his phone and returns to rehearsing, Johnny takes the chance to slip away.

Maybe theatre kids are just not his crowd after all, he thinks, feeling like some sort of social pariah as he stumbles his way around the Loewe to find Kun. Or maybe, he’s just overwhelmed and he’s simply unused to adjusting to those kinds of interactions anymore.

He finds the blonde on the other end of the stage, standing near the curtains talking to someone he can’t see. Johnny unconsciously smiles upon spotting his little beacon of hope, jogging over, but that’s until another familiar face comes into view—of peach under eyes, pale skin, and dimples—and Johnny trips on his own feet.

Jaehyun.

Luckily, Kun’s within an arm’s reach when Johnny loses his balance, and Kun’s able to catch him in his arms before he face-plants. Unluckily, Johnny’s heavier than both of them accounted for, and they both fall back into the curtains, the thick material somehow cushioning their fall.

“Director!” Someone calls out from behind them, and Johnny flinches. That’s definitely Jaehyun, alright. He would know that voice anywhere, and would probably still recognize it even if he goes deaf. “A–Are you okay?”

Kun means to open his mouth, but Johnny grips the front of his jacket, frantically shaking his head. Immediately, Kun’s expression changes back to an amiable one, coughing out a laugh that seems genuine enough. “Oh no, it’s fine! I can handle this, we just have. Stuff to talk about. You guys take five.”

Kun makes a move to get up, Johnny only shakes his head some more and further tightens his hold, adjusting his weight on top of the younger to prevent him from standing. He will not turn around until he’s sure Jaehyun has left.

No, he mouths, his hands flying up to Kun’s cheeks, eyes prickling with tears quietly begging him to stay a little longer. He aggressively squeezes at the plump flesh, effectively squishing Kun’s face. (If it had been any other situation, Johnny would have a second to think he looked really adorable.)

Please.

Kun looks past Johnny on top of him, towards the man looming over them. He seems pensive for a moment.

“I swear it’s alright, Jeff. Go on.”

Jeff, Johnny mentally scoffs.

With a dismissive wave and prolonged grin from Kun, the students behind them finally shuffle along, and Johnny feels an immense weight leave his shoulders. As though their stares, Jaehyun’s stare weighed tons carried on his back.

Johnny finally allows himself to be assisted off the ground, vision still blurred by the tears that brimmed his eyes. Kun looks worried, but he bites his tongue.

The collective red tail lights look like bugs congregating in the rush hour traffic, Johnny thinks. And even though he absolutely hates insects, it felt pleasant, like the low hum of pointless chatter around the campfire in the middle of a forest, while the cacophony of crickets harmonized in the background. Somehow, Johnny feels so much better already. With Kun sitting right next to him, it makes all the difference.

He’s looking out the window, seemingly deep in thought. Johnny quietly admires his side profile, silhouetted sharply against the red, until Kun turns towards him and he has to quickly look away.

He hears him sigh.

“What’s wrong, Johnny?”

“Nothing.”

Johnny feels the leather between them dip.

“Look at me.”

The older of the pair timidly looks up, and Kun’s sitting closer than before, so much so that Johnny can exactly count every eyelash that flutters up and down, brushing against pale cheeks every time the blonde blinks. Feels every hot breath he takes, hitching with nerves, and it smells like mint.

“You know Winwin’s boyfriend, don’t you?”

Johnny’s eyes drop to his lap. Of fucking course he’s Winwin’s boyfriend.

“Johnny—”

“— Yes I  know him , Kun. I do. He’s my ex. Whom I haven’t heard from in months, and suddenly he’s fucking another man. There, happy now?”

Johnny expects Kun to flinch, to regard him with utter disgust. Winwin is one of his best friends after all, and Johnny practically just reduced him to an object Jaehyun has decided to latch onto next after leaving Johnny to bleed dry.

Yet when he looks back in those eyes, glassy as they may be, there’s only pity. In a way, it feels way worse; Johnny doesn’t want sympathy, he doesn’t need charity. He doesn’t want people to look at him like he’s lost everything, not after he’s spent so much time healing and learning that he has lost nothing, because he’s still here. That if anyone has lost anything, it’s Jaehyun, not him.

“I’m. So sorry, Johnny.”

“Don’t, Kun.” He lifts a palm to Kun’s face to stop him. “Don’t.”

What Johnny doesn’t expect is to feel another hand to be placed on top of his own, fingers intertwining carefully. Holding it close, holding him together. He instinctively flinches and attempts to withdraw, but Kun only holds him tighter, squeezing his hand. A quiet assurance.

Just like that, everything Johnny has been desperately holding close in the safety of those walls he’s built comes crashing down. He falls against Kun, huge droplets of tears streaking his cheeks and soaking the front of Kun’s jacket. Sobs wrack his body in uncontrollable quivers, and for the first time in a long time, Johnny lets it all go. For once, he stops putting on a strong front, stops pretending that he was never gashed deeply by how the best thing he’s known all his life left him high and dry in the cold.

A quick instruction to the cabbie has them taking a quick detour to KTown, that is, an unnamed convenience store in a miraculously secluded area in the popular neighborhood. All thanks to the bars, restaurants, and other far more popular establishments for Korean and foreign youth alike, they are able to find a peaceful corner in the midst of all the chaos.

Kun apologizes for not taking Johnny somewhere more special, quickly adding in a joke about how he had originally planned to go to The Bitter End—another coffeeshop-turned-club thanks to its historical significance to giving homage to many of America’s most famous comedians and musicians—but it would not be appropriate, considering the circumstances.

Besides, he says, he figured Johnny might need somewhere less conspicuous should he have more to vent, and the clubs in Midtown Manhattan, a Monday may it be, are still not it.

But instead of the planned heart-to-heart, the pair ends up quietly slurping on some instant ramyeon —mild for Kun and extra spicy for Johnny—while nursing a few bottles of soju, with the free shot glass shared between them. Supposedly, Kun is allergic to spirits, which raises Johnny’s concern, but he dismisses it, expressing that he needs to drink even a little as a “sign of camaraderie” with Johnny.

“I will be fine as long as I just have a bit,” Kun insists, before throwing his head back to down the bittersweet drink. He hisses, almost repulsed, and it makes Johnny laugh.

Special place or not, the ambiance is actually nice, Johnny decides. And the silence is not at all awkward. It never is with Kun, he realizes.

“Has anyone ever told you that,” Johnny says after a few rounds, eyelids fluttering, nearly dozing off before he’s able to continue his question. He swings the shot glass in Kun’s direction, nearly showering him with soju. “You’ve pretty good sense?”

“Hm?”

“Oh, just. I feel like you always know what I’m thinking, y’know? I’m basically a stranger, but you know exactly when to swoop in and save my ass.”

Kun chuckles, taking the glass from Johnny’s hold and drinking it in his stead. “Not really. I think that’s just because you’re an open book, Johnny.”

Johnny turns to face him, a tight-lipped smile plastered on as he blinks sleepily at the blonde.

“Nahhh,” he slurs after a beat, dismissively swinging a pair of chopsticks around, almost swatting away Kun’s glasses, if only he hasn’t neatly dodged those disposable ramyeon-stained swords. “I think it’s ‘cause you’re just really cool. And like, a great guy.”

There’s the brown noise of people pouring out of clubs and into love hotels, the idle revving of passing vehicles, and the distant thrumming of dance music. Impressively, the neighborhood is lively for a weekday night, seemingly more active and oddly captivating than it ever is during the day. Yet, through all of that, Johnny is looking at Kun, sees the faint outline of neon signages against his soft cheeks and sharp jaw. A stark contrast from the fluorescent lights of the convenience store bathing them in sleepy bluish light. Every now and then, Johnny notices Kun’s dimple dip ever so slightly as he nurses the remaining droplets of alcohol.

Johnny drops his chopsticks and grabs Kun’s face, smashing their lips together.

But instead of those plump cherries, he meets a calloused palm that sends him sputtering. The contact almost immediately sobers him up, and he nearly falls off the bar stool. He blinks, sees Kun hiding behind his raised hand.

“What th—”

Kun only turns away to hide the red that has climbed up to his ears. He pretends to clean up their table, and when he makes for the trash bin, Johnny grabs his wrist. Kun instinctively raises his free palm again, wary.

“I’m sorry?” Johnny looks indignant.

“Johnny.” Kun shakes off the offending hand, dark irises nearly begging. “This is a mistake.”

“Not to me.”

Kun’s shoulders sag with a heavy sigh. He puts down the bottles, giving Johnny a pointed look before grabbing his face. He at least has the decency to be flustered, skin warm under Kun’s touch.

“Listen to me. You. Are. Drunk.” Kun enunciates, expression serious, making sure the taller understands. “Don’t do something you will regret in the morning. Understand me?”

“...”

“Johnny.”

“Hm?” Johnny sounds like a reprimanded child.

“Do you understand?”

Something about Kun’s tone chokes Johnny up, preventing him from forming a proper response, and he wraps Kun in a tight embrace, all snot and tears against the back of the blonde’s coat. This time, despite resounding a deep sigh, Kun lets himself be held, staying quiet and letting Johnny cry his fill.

—

Taeil was not on duty when Kun took Johnny home that night, the lobby suddenly feeling too empty and quiet in the otherwise eventful night. The clock hanging over the receptionist’s desk seemed to tick louder than usual as they crossed the foyer, keeping in time with Johnny’s heart hammering away in his ribcage.

Without so much as a (friendly) embrace, Kun bade Johnny good night, patting lightly over the latter’s jacket collar before turning to leave, retreating figure conducting Johnny’s eyes to follow until he disappeared into his own dormitory room.

That was the last time Johnny saw Kun again.

Not that the to-be playwright is avoiding him. He’s simply become too busy with university work, much like the day before. After all, the opening night for his final play draws ever closer. He must be preoccupied with finalizing the script and set, going through rehearsals, and settling everything else that needs to be done.

That’s what Johnny tells himself, anyway, because since that night, despite getting Kun’s number, his Messages gather dust, nothing but flies welcoming him everytime he opens it out of habit—other than the regular messages from his parents, of course—with every hour of every day that passes by trickle slow. It’s torture, really. It’s the first time in what, seventeen-ish years? Since he’s ever had a proper crush again.

Crush. Hm. That’s a pretty powerful word, Johnny thinks, plopping over his perpetually unmade bed. He blows overgrown bangs away from his face, peering down at his useless brick of a phone, a lit-up gravestone past the white hills on his comforter.

Kun’s a pretty cool guy, is all.

But if said cool guy will continue to ghost him as he free falls through the clouds with no assurance that he’ll have anything waiting for him at the bottom, well.

Johnny sits upright, expression full of conviction until the nausea catches up to him and he has to clutch at his head. Stupid.

If said cool guy will continue to ghost me , continues his train of thought as he shakes away the dizziness, a newfound sense of purpose filling him as he reaches for the bedside table, rummaging for his charger. Then I’ll have to take matters into my own hands, and do what I know best.

Plugging in his phone, Johnny exhales, starting to type what could be his last letter to one Kun Qian.

Dear Kun,

It’s me, Johnny. I think it would be insane for you to not know unless you gave me the wrong number and didn’t save mine. Anyway, I just wanted to write to you for the last time without any of the pretentious, highfalutin bullshit. Only pure truth, ig.

I think it goes without saying that our last meetup left quite the sour taste in our mouth. Mine, mostly, with how much I threw up the next day. Lol. Sorry for getting pissfaced wasted, btw. It’s really a bad idea to get drunk when you’re heartbroken. Thank god you were there to help me through it. I think I would probably be dead in a ditch somewhere if you didn’t humor my stupidity. So, again, thanks!

Anyway, sorry I keep getting off-track. I just wanted to say, thanks for showing me around New York. Other than having a sugar daddy/ slave/ tour guide all-in-one, I really had a great time. Really. I feel like this experience would be miles shitty if you weren’t there to sweep me off my feet. And that, you did with ease. Idk if it’s just me rebounding or what tbh, but I really think you’re fun and cool and smart and EVERYTHING. This stupid feeling may be momentary, but I’ll always think of you that way, Kun. You’re effortlessly kind and amazing. It’s kind of hard to not fall for a bro, yk??

Dumb feelings aside, this NYC trip’s one for the books. I feel like I’d probably still think back to these days once I go back home tomorrow. I keep saying it, but thank you for giving me such a memorable experience.

Soul-searching, that’s what I said this was supposed to be, right? I don’t know if I found myself, but at least I found you.

Til we see each other again, I guess?

Yours,
J.

—

“ Jesus Christ, even I know this is reckle— ack— KUN!”

Ten Lee clutches the passenger assist grip like it’s a lifeline. His other hand desperately tries to find purchase on the dashboard, rings pressing circular indents on his skin, knuckles bone-white against the dark, sleek leather interior of the borrowed 2020 Lincoln Aviator.

In the second row sit a nervous-looking Yangyang and a stoic Winwin, still miraculously clearheaded despite being surgically attached to his phone in a vehicle moving over sixty miles per hour. Dejun and Hendery’s status at the backseat, on the other hand, only remains known from the ceaseless pterodactyl screeching, unplanned harmonization impressively still going at the same decibel for the past half hour, the sound the only thing to contest Ten’s unheeded scolds.

Then there’s their titular leader on the driver’s seat, racing through the expressway with a speed that would probably give him cardiac arrest should it have been anybody else behind the wheel. He grips at it like it would run away from him any second, eyes so laser focused on the road that he probably wouldn’t bat an eyelash even if someone slapped him hard in the face.

And oh, does Ten want to do that right now.

His scorn is at least appeased once they finally make it out of South Ozone Park, exiting swiftly to the east, and the screaming in the backseat fades out once Kun slows down in the well-trafficked neighborhood of Jamaica. Although his racer persona does get replaced with the whiny bitch one as they are caught in the early morning jam. With the collective groans coming from the rest of the passengers, clearly they preferred neither.

It’s their first weekend off after a long week of pre-production and rehearsals for Kun’s final project, the work stretching into the evenings due to their respective schedules outside of that being hectic as well. Everyone’s relieved to finally have a day off, most of them swearing to sleep in until Sunday, but one Liu Yangyang knows his plans of a lazy day are thrown out the window when he opens the door to a red-faced Kun and the rest of their friend group in a similarly frazzled state behind him.

Convincing Yangyang’s dad to lend his car proved to be no difficult feat once Kun asks the favor, squared shoulders and generally trustworthy disposition taking little effort to earn that driver’s seat. Maintaining that trust, however, is a different subject once they’ve barely strapped themselves in and the eldest immediately floors it, taking the vehicle’s model name too literally and practically making it fly through Lower Manhattan, across Brooklyn, and finally, to Queens.

As soon as they pull up at the JFK Airport parking lot, their ultimate finish line, the Lincoln Aviator erupts in cheers. Even Winwin is nearly reduced to tears, and Hendery dramatically kisses the pavement. Unfortunately, the celebration was short-lived because Kun makes a run for the airport, and the ragtag bunch runs after him, screaming for him to slow down lest he breaks something.

But Kun is a man on a mission, the shouts behind him unheard and lost in the usual airport white noise. The past month’s events flashed in his mind like a cliché; from the first day he wrongly received an R-18 letter addressed to his new dormitory’s previous owner, up to that fateful day he stumbled upon that red-nosed, severely underdressed stranger in the snow. All the self-control it took for him to not fluster under Johnny’s stolen glances in the cab when he thought Kun wasn’t looking. How it catalyzed the rollercoaster of events that would follow.

While Kun is to blame for being the first one to knock over the proverbial domino, truth be told, he doesn’t even know anymore at this point if he only ever braved to ask Johnny out—for the lack of a better term—because he genuinely felt bad, or because he developed a particular interest in him. To be fair, Johnny is one hot son of a gun, that much everyone can agree on, but during their little tour, Kun learned more about him: what he likes, what makes him tick, his little quirks and habits, his perfections and flaws. How he loves animals and pizza and art, or how he’s so clumsy despite his stature. How he’s still extremely hung up on his ex, even though he barely even cares enough to recognize the back of Johnny’s head.

And somehow, because of it all, Johnny only became even more beautiful in Kun’s eyes.

The message from last night—which he only missed due to passing out from exhaustion as soon as he stumbled into bed—felt like a blow to Kun’s ego, like everything he’s established up to this point was for naught. He shouldn’t be expecting anything in return in the first place. After all, it’s a part of the deal for Kun to provide anything Johnny would require from him to compensate for the damage he’s caused, but somehow, when he sprinted to Johnny’s dorm room that morning, only to see Taeil doing last checks to make sure it’s already been cleared out, Kun felt like he was a fool for ever thinking he mattered enough for at least one last goodbye in person. Like, an awkward smile or wave or something would’ve sufficed.

Maybe Johnny really was just drunk when he meant to kiss Kun.

But that doesn’t matter now. Kun doesn’t care if Johnny doesn’t really feel the same way. He only wants to see him one more time before he is gone forever.

Except those kinds of things only ever happened in the movies, and we aren’t allowed so much as a dramatic denouement before life passes us by, people leave, and the cycle repeats.

Kun causes a commotion as he nearly forces his way past airport security just to make it to Departure, with no luck of course, and once the gang catches up to him, they have to collectively pull him back to stop him from doing anything stupider. He gives in eventually, shrugging them off and crouching with his head in his hands as he struggles to catch his breath.

The ding of the intercom sounds like a game buzzer telling him his time is up. From there, he can hear the distinct sound of the plane’s propellers as it takes off. The pitiful stares from his friends around him feels like an unspoken insult from the disappointed studio audience.

Sadly, Kun’s life is no romance drama; it’s a situational comedy. Except the jokes have gone stale, and everyone’s stopped laughing a long time ago.

“What… is happening right now?”

Kun barely hears the telltale rolling of luggage wheels before he’s turning around with a speed that gives him whiplash, not taking another second to think twice before he runs up to the dumbfounded giant looking unbelievably princely in his bucket hat and plain, black oversized shirt.

Johnny easily catches him in a tight embrace, lifting him off the ground and spinning him around, bright red passport long forgotten and thrown somewhere. Kun only pulls away to look at him, shoulders lifting in an obvious effort of holding his emotions at bay. But as he holds Johnny’s face in his hands, his eyes begin to brim with everything he’s struggled to hide behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

He looks like he wants to say something, but Johnny spares him the effort and slams their lips together, speaking for the both of them in the only way he knows how.

Behind them, their friends watch fondly, knowing smiles on their faces.

“Goddamn,” Ten whistles, grumbling as he rummages through his pockets, his many accessories jingling in his wake like a modern chainmail. Yangyang proudly holds out his hand, grinning devilishly as the older slams crumpled Benjamins into his open palm.

—

Eomma,

How have you and dad been? Have you been in perfect condition? It’s been getting even colder, so I hope y’all are always bundled up and keeping warm.

Have there been any good dramas recently? I’m so outdated with newer shows nowadays, because we don’t have a TV. I hope you’ve been recording your favorite shows for me so we can watch them together later on.

I’ve been well as usual, but I miss your cooking SO. BADLY. I only ever afford decent warm meals from part-timing at the residence, which doesn’t pay well, but at least it’s not very boring because Taeil’s around. There’s also the local photo studio, which I enjoy more than anything else. Though you don’t have to worry about me overworking myself because I love my job! If I could do it with my eyes closed, I would! I’m a big boy now, and I’ve found something I’m passionate about. So you should be proud of me, okay!

On the off-days, I’ve also been learning to cook for myself. Well, mostly being a bother in the kitchen, while this certain, loveable playwright does most of the work. He’s been very patient though, and despite his own busy schedule, he never lets me off the hook without making sure I’m well-fed and taken care of first. I’m in good hands, eomma, so that’s another thing to ease your worries. Maybe you can exchange recipes with my personal chef once you meet him. You’d be absolutely blown away by what he can do.

After all, it’s the holidays soon! Can’t wait to see you and dad again. Until then, please take great care and be of good health.

Miss you,
J & K.