Chapter Text
You’re special.
“You’re special.”
“You’re special.”
He’s six years old the first time he hears it. He loses focus a moment, on the woman before him, trying to translate the words in his head from Korean to English. He’s moving to the States soon enough. His parents tell him of it. For his birthday, they gave him language workbooks. One disappointment had been greatly dwarfed by another, very quickly.
He knows this woman. He knows her well. He’s familiar with the way she smells like wilting jasmines and orange juice with bits of pulp, and the way the skin gathers and bunches, wrinkles like cinched fabric at the corners of her eyes. She has these candies, wrapped in rice paper and vaguely shaped like flowers that she gives to Gunil for every Sunday he sings. To please her, he sings as much as he’s allowed.
She cups his cheeks with frail fingers, paper-thin and mottled with age. They don’t seem to know anything but gentleness. “You’re special, young one. I can hear it in your voice, see it in your eyes,” she murmurs, “So bright and so smart, He’s made you so very special, Gunil.”
His eyes go wide and he stares up at her in shock. “He?” he echoes, astonished, “You mean God?” And she faces him, her head haloed by the fluorescent lighting overhead, a figure framed by the stained glass window before the podium. He knows faintly, it’s blasphemy, but for a moment, he wonders if she is God.
She nods her head, reaches into her pocket, and gifts him a handful of candy. He never sees her again. He saves her candy, and counts it on the way to the States, lining them up on the economy class tables. In total, he counts six. They all taste sour on his tongue when the plane just barely graces Heaven, then descends.
♱
“You’re so special.”
Gunil pulls back, breathless, lightheaded. It takes several blinks, and several moments, for him to regard Jungsu without his vision splitting in three. Jungsu with his dirty-blond hair mussed and unkempt from Gunil’s own fingers, eyeliner smudged around his golden brown lashes, lip gloss traveled from his lips to his chin, cheek, chest. When Gunil presses his own lips together, he can taste it there. All artificial grape sweetness.
The back of Jungsu’s car is poorly lit, only the streetlamps providing any light; coming through the windows in tinted slants, occasionally accompanied by the flash of headlights or the flickering of the nearby stoplights. In rhythmic patterns, Jungsu is red, and then he is green. Somehow still—in spite of the oppressive darkness—he glows .
Gunil almost sort of misses Jungsu’s hair dyed platinum and cut short. It was easier then, to pretend the halo Gunil sees hanging upon his head, was more than a self indulging illusion when he dulled his world and mind. It was a play of light and cheap box bleach, nothing more.
He swallows, throat thick, shaking his head, spreading his hands over Jungsu’s shoulders. “No,” he says, voice slurred and strange to his own ears. Better that way. Better he not feel like himself when he does this. Pull the collar of Jungsu’s shirt down below his collarbones, tilt forward, and leisurely paint Jungsu’s neck and chest with adoring openmouthed kisses.
“I’m not.”
♱
Meeting Jungsu isn’t initially life altering. It’s the exact sort of dreadful typical that marks Gunil’s dull days.
It’s often he meets a pretty boy who he’s briefly and intensely infatuated with for all of the single minute that they interact. Imagining his face as the space between Gunil’s palms that differentiates the fine line between worship and prayer. Falling asleep to him and waking up to him in a bed so very far from Grace.
Then his gaze parts from Gunil’s, and he feels sick, and they never speak again. At one point, it almost seems a mutual exchange that wholly violates both Gunil, and the person he admires.
Yet Jungsu is determined, and he always makes sure Gunil looks back. Again and again and again. On the first day of class, he sits beside Gunil, and he turns to him, flashes that glaring smile of his, and he catches Gunil completely off guard with a single greeting.
“Hi, I’m Jungsu.” He’s got eyes like candy and lips like wine and Gunil knows well the taste of grapeskin thin blood coated over his tongue, and how bitter he finds it. He also thinks he'd have the predisposition to being drunk on a single sip.
Winded, clenching his bitten pencil in his hand hard enough to hear it creak, Gunil manages to respond, “Hi, I’m Gunil. Nice to meet you.” He only manages to glance at Jungsu from his peripherals, lest he blind himself. He focuses his eyes on the fraying thread of his sleeve, letting his vision turn in and out like a broken lens.
Jungsu somehow only grins wider, subtly scooting his chair closer. “Nice to meet you too.” Gunil thinks they’ll never speak again, but when Jungsu crosses his arms over the table, their elbows bump.
It would’ve been better if they’d never spoken again. It would have been so much better if Jungsu had given up on him from the very start, just like he’s given up on himself, with all the pretty boys before.
♱
As time goes by, it only gets harder and harder for Gunil to ignore Pretty Boy Jungsu. The class is free seating, yet every class—every Monday through Thursday, without fail, Jungsu sits in the seat right beside Gunil. It’s like he’s intentionally trying to drive Gunil insane.
Gunil isn’t blameless though. Of course not. Because the same as Jungsu sits next to him every day, Gunil watches him do so. Looking away as soon as Jungsu glances his way, pretending to be enamored with his notes from the lecture before, a flash of heat and cold racing down his back at once, making the room so very small, the space between him and Jungsu miniscule.
It’s hard to block out Jungsu from his peripherals. His hair is a platinum blond that shines in every lighting, and he sits upright and straight in his chair, with a confidence Gunil can never comprehend. Compared to Gunil poised politely and primly in his own seat, shrinking the air around him and making himself, in every way but literal, invisible. Jungsu demands attention.
Gunil is likely projecting. He knows what it is that keeps him staring at Jungsu when he forgets not to. He refuses to give it a name.
In spite of his poor restraint, when Jungsu enters the classroom, shoulders slumped and head ducked, gaze downcast, Gunil notices . Because Jungsu doesn’t raise his head, Gunil is able to discreetly observe him as he makes way to the slate-grey, dull table he’s sat at. Plopping into the seat without the usual noise and flair that he typically exudes.
Biting into his bottom lip, Gunil does as is routine, and trains his gaze on his notes, the blinking cursor on his screen that follows them. Class begins, but his attention is split between the professor droning on, and Jungsu’s unmoving figure beside him.
On a whim, he leans forward, and rummages through his pencil bag. He can feel Jungsu’s stare flick to him, curious if nothing else. Gunil pulls out sticky notes he’d stuffed in beside all the pens, pencils, and highlighters. He twirls a ballpoint pen between his fingers before setting the nib to the pasty yellow paper.
Is your favorite color blue? he writes. Before he can think too long and hard about it, he rips it from the pad and slaps it on the surface before Jungsu, snatching his hand back like he’d been stung. He hides his face behind too-long bangs.
There’s a moment between the action and Jungsu sitting up, the sound of his pencil scribbling against the note grating and stark in Gunil’s ears. Much more gently, easily, Jungsu drops it to the keyboard of Gunil’s laptop. Pulling it to himself quickly, feeling like a middle schooler all over again, afraid to be caught and scolded, even though the student in front of him was blatantly watching a movie on his phone and the professor hardly cared.
He pauses, swallowing, admiring Jungsu’s handwriting longer than could ever be called for. Jungsu writes messily, and that surprises Gunil just a little bit. Jungsu overall seems neat, his shirts ironed and pressed, pants never wrinkled, face always clean. But here his words are, stacked and clumped together with emphasized circles and skinny lines. Handwriting shouldn’t be cute.
Jungsu had penned, with an air of confusion that was distinguishable even through writing: yes? why? The graphite shiny and scratchy, so different from Gunil’s neatly inked pen.
This time, Gunil takes a little bit longer to hand the note back. He’s stuck. He can’t not respond, that would appear weird, if not rude. But he’s regretting this already. His heart beating too fast and his cheeks warm.
Still, he writes his response right beneath Jungsu’s, and he slides it Jungsu’s way, looking obstinately straight ahead. Because you look really blue right now.
He finds the world around him muffling, the professor’s voice becoming nothing but a background tune as he attunes each and every one of his senses to Jungsu’s reaction. He doesn’t know if it’s loud, but he flinches at how loud it is to him when Jungsu snorts suddenly, bending over himself to stifle his responding laugh.
He feels the corners of his mouth twitch up, his stomach swoop, pleased with himself. Even if temporary, even if small, he’s made Jungsu feel just a little bit better than he had prior. A little bit more himself.
He isn’t expecting the soft tap on his shoulder, jumping and swiveling his head around to meet Jungsu’s gaze for the first time since Jungsu introduced himself. He’s stunned, rendered speechless, by the brown liner that delicately outlines the gentle sharpness of Jungsu’s eyes.
His heart leaps in his throat when Jungsu comes closer, and Gunil will remember the warmth of his nearness and the brush of his t-shirt sleeve against Gunil’s arm for the rest of his life, whispering, “Sorry, but that was horrible.” Nonetheless, he smiles, and he smiles unapologetically. Gratefully, even. Dumbstruck, all Gunil can do is nod, his lips glued together.
It feels like ages, but Jungsu only regards him for a single second, eyes wide with intrigue and delight Gunil doesn’t know how to interpret. Then he slides the note back and with renewed vigor, listens to the professor and jots down notes, chin propped in his hand, squishing his smile into something unbearable to view.
Gunil looks down at the smallest of interactions he’s initiated, the mixture of guilt and giddiness churning in his stomach like poison. He can’t hear anything but the blood rushing in his ears when his hand moves against his will, writing one last line. He stares at it, queasy.
It’s okay. My favorite color is blue too.
He knows Jungsu is watching when he harshly folds the note in two and shoves it into his bag, never to see the light of day again.
♱
Moving out had been one of the easiest choices Gunil has ever had to make in life. He didn’t think his parents would let him at first, not after his brother, and he hadn’t even tried, initially applying to all the colleges he could easily commute to, ready to sign away another part of his life without even really thinking about it, ready to mindlessly accept his fate.
Against all odds, his parents told him that wasn’t happening. They thought it would hinder his studies if he wasn’t constantly surrounded by school, school, school. So they allowed him to apply for housing. As long as they first made sure a reputable church was nearby, of course. One that wasn’t too progressive, too unprogressive. A precise balance of neither.
If there’s anything he misses about his old home, it’s his drums tucked away in the basement. In his single, there was an overwhelming lack of noise that didn’t come muffled through the thinnish walls. He thought it would be better that way. It’s kind of more maddening that way. He misses noise. The silence screams at him.
All there is now is the ticking of the analog at his bedside, and his mother’s voice, tinny and crackling through the speaker of his chipped, aged phone. “How has school been going, Gunil-ah?” she asks, as if she isn’t interrupting any chance he has at finishing his schoolwork tonight.
With dread and resignation, he stares at his propped open textbook and the worksheet tab on his laptop. Biting back his sigh, he shuts both of them, pulling his chair up to his desk and resting his knees up against the edge. The smidgen of pain is almost nothing to him.
“Going just fine, Eomma.”
There’s the familiar racket and bustle of the kitchen in the background. He can hear the news channel and knows his dad is likely in the living room only a few feet away, feet kicked up on the couch asleep while the television plays. He wonders if he misses that, and just doesn’t know it, or if the hollow emptiness of his dorm is somehow preferable.
He misses it somewhat, he can admit that. “How about church?” his mom asks, and he understands immediately, why homesickness doesn’t ail him. “I noticed you left some of your Sunday outfits when you last visited, I—”
“Church is good,” he lies through his teeth. His phone starts to feel hot against his ear, heavy in his hand. He’d think it was his punishment for lying, if he didn’t know worse has become of him and worse was waiting for him.
A hum of acknowledgment, there’s a lapse of silence, the sound of simmering oil and boiling water. “You know Sister Sarah’s daughter, the one from Sunday school a couple years back?” Gunil pauses, considers it, knowing exactly where this was leading.
He spins in his chair, pressing his socked feet into the cold hardwood floor. Anything to ground himself, anything to forget the turmoil of his mind and remember the heaviness of his skin and how it weighs him down like nothing else ever will.
“I remember her,” he replies warily, standing. Holding his elbow in one hand, pacing about the empty room, recognizing truly just how empty it was. “Couple years older. Part of the choir. Of course I remember her.” She was always doing the best in whatever she was doing. Could memorize psalms the way Gunil memorized lyrics.
His mom clicks her tongue, tapping something on the other end. “Ah, of course, of course,” she exhales, “You had that little puppy crush on her, I remember.”
No, but her brother had the same curls she had, and Gunil hadn’t ever hated the straightness and flatness of his hair until he’d met him. He’d played the choir guitar too. Gunil had been fascinated. “Right,” he mutters, hoping he sounds more embarrassed than unenthused, “What about her?”
There isn’t any hesitation before his mom dives headfirst into her spiel. “She came back to the church the other day,” she tells, “You should come by and visit more.” She flits past the suggestion breezily. He only visits on holidays. Strictly.
“We held this small little celebration for her. Can you guess what? She graduated. Top of her class. She’s going to be a computer scientist or engineer, one of them. Ah, minds these days, so big. So big.”
Gunil pauses his pacing, stares at the whiteboard hung on his wall. He hasn’t updated the weekly calendar on it in a bit. The assignments scrawled over the days are from well over two weeks ago. The work had been less then. He had been more. Even that is debatable
“Maybe that’s what you should do, Gunil. Computer science. I hear it’s a big market these days. So many computers. They could do with a brain like yours. You know you’re—”
He cuts her off, before the heat pooling in the back of his head can become a headache. “Mom,” he says short and quick, squirming at the sudden way she goes very silent. He’s not supposed to do that. He knows he’s not supposed to do that. Immediately he apologizes. “I have to go. There’s a…a group project I have to work on. Planned with other people y’know…”
It’s clear she isn’t pleased with being interrupted, but she tsks forgivingly. “Okay.” For a moment he thinks that’s how she’s going to end it. Then, after a beat, she adds, “I’m keeping you in my thoughts, Gunil.” In my prayers . Like she knows he needs to be there.
He swallows a deep breath, something beneath his skin burning, pricking and stabbing the area around his eyes. “‘Kay, Eomma. I…Bye, Love you.” And she hangs up without another word.
He pulls his phone from his ear, staring at the blank screen of it for a moment, precariously tipping on the edge of vertigo. Chewing on his lip, he throws it in the direction of his bed blindly. He pulls on his shoes, and rips the door of his room open.
♱
The campus of his college is nothing extraordinary. Just the right amount of plain to be completely average. Large swaths of grass where students mill about and sit. Worn, stained concrete paths that cut right between them. The occasional tree that looks younger than it is, just as impressive as the vandalized street lamp beside it.
The sky was cornflower blue. The perfect color of dusk. It paints everything in a cool light, and he imagines it washes over him, taking away the discomfort that follows him everywhere, and cleanses him, rids him of every misdeed, every sin. Though he thinks by the time it’s finished, he’d have completely disappeared.
Stuck in his head, burdened by the scratching of his sweater against his prickling skin, he doesn’t know, doesn’t even consider passing by anyone he knows. It’s his second year here, but it’s easy, not to talk to anyone unless obligated.
“Hey! Gunil!”
Completely off put, he stops dead in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder puzzled. He wishes the ground would swallow him whole, cut his judgment short. Jogging casually towards him, white tee crisp in the evening light, smile wide. The streetlamps flicker on just as Jungsu reaches him, and Gunil doesn’t believe in omens, but he thinks that just might be one.
“Hi?” he greets, loosening his arms around his midsection, running his tongue over the peeling skin of his lip.
Jungsu shakes his hair out of his eyes, tucking blond strands of it behind his ear, a variety of hair bands wrapped around his wrist. Gunil doesn’t imagine him using them. He doesn’t. “Jungsu,” he says, “I’m in your archaeology class?” As if Gunil could somehow not recognize him. Somehow even forgot him.
Nodding slowly, Gunil says, “I know. Uh, just didn’t see you. What’s up?”
Jungsu turns and points over to a tree Gunil had passed, where three other boys are gathered, staring at him openly, curiously. One waves when they notice Jungsu and Gunil looking, and hesitantly, Gunil waves back. “My friends,” Jungsu explains. “Dorks,” he elaborates.
He glances back at Gunil and begins walking towards them, and Gunil gets the impression he’s meant to follow. So follow he does, scratching at his skin a bit nervously. “Guys, Gunil,” Jungsu introduces, indicating to the two parties theatrically, “Gunil, Guys.”
Their voices resound in a myriad of greetings, and Gunil does his best to respond with the same pitch and pace. “So you’re Gunil,” the one with long hair that Gunil’s father would have shaved off himself remarks. Something about him frightens Gunil. No, it’s something about all of them that sets off alarm bells throughout his entire being. “You aren’t what I expected.”
“You’ve heard of me?” Gunil questions unsurely. Knowing he has any sort of reputation, is not something he’s prepared to come to terms with. He thinks more expectations are the last thing he needs.
The one with white-rimmed glasses and polished nails that stand out against his rabbit patterned phone case, offers him a small smile. “Jungsu doesn’t talk as much as these two, but he talks.”
Gunil looks to Jungsu, and Jungsu avidly looks away from him. “Black nail polish is Hyeongjun,” he relays, instead of acknowledging any of what his friends are saying, “Long hair is Jooyeon, and sparkly eyes is Jiseok.”
Sparkly eyes, the shortest of the trio, perks up as if awakened by his name. “You seem cool, dude,” he assumes immediately, boldly, “You should definitely hang out with us sometime. I think you’d fit right in with us.” He winks, and Hyeongjun unsubtly shoves him.
Pursing his lips, Jungsu faces him, tilting his head. “I don’t know what he’s saying,” he grumbles, “But you should. If you’d want to?” He looks at Gunil, and Gunil couldn’t be weaker to the faint plea in his imploring gaze.
It’s a mistake. He knows it’s a mistake before he even makes it, but he makes it nonetheless, almost against his own will, nodding. “Sure, of course, why not?” Agreeing in three different phrases. One for each of Jungsu’s friends, it would seem.
Jungsu’s responding smile is bright and blinding, truly delighted. Gunil’s skin crawls, but it’s only because of the way his heart races. “Cool.” Jungsu comes closer, and when they’re not sat beside each other, chair to chair, Gunil realizes just how tall Jungsu really is. “I’ll give you my number.”
Awkwardly, Gunil kicks at the ground. “Uh, I kinda left my number in my dorm.”
A bit surprised, but easily accommodating, Jungsu pulls out his own phone. “Oh, that’s alright. You can give me yours. I’ll text you their numbers too.”
Jiseok grins, leaning forward and tugging on Jungsu’s pants. “Sure you will?” he taunts.
Catching on like the train of thought had been shared between them, Jooyeon joins in, sidling up to Jiseok and peering up at him with suspect. “Who knows. Maybe you’ll try to keep him for yourself, Jungsu.”
Swiftly depositing his phone into Gunil’s hands, smile threatening, Jungsu bends down and grabs the two by their noses, promptly and effectively shutting them up.
Gunil stares at the object uncertainly, as if it were foreign to him. As quick as he can manage while simultaneously rebooting, he inputs his number and his name. Jungsu looks up at him just as he’s about to finish, the light catching his eye, his lashes glowing.
Impulsively, Gunil adds a blue heart, before shutting the phone off, and handing it back, the setting sun burning through him righteously.
♱
If Gunil were normal, and had been raised with even a shred of relative normalcy, he would’ve spoken to Jungsu after that. But Jungsu has yet to text him, and Gunil has yet to speak to him in class. A week of classes go by, and Gunil has yet to do more than offer Jungsu a pencil when he’d run out of lead.
It was pathetic honestly, but Gunil has grown used to being perpetually just kind of that . Even when Jungsu’s growing disappointment scorns him, he keeps his head hung low, hair shadowing his eyes and ears, and withdraws within himself. Hoping, praying , that Jungsu will finally give up on him.
He needs Jungsu to stop pushing, trying to break through to Gunil, because Gunil knows, knows , it won’t take much more before Gunil gives. Somehow he thinks if it were anyone else, maybe he could forgive himself for it. But it’s Jungsu. And Jungsu is sweet to the touch and Gunil knows he’d be dreaming about what that sweetness would do to the roof of his mouth for days .
He knows exactly what his mother would refer to Jungsu as. It wouldn’t be so crass as what his father would call Jungsu. But it would be more severe, the forked tongue of a snake sharpened to gleaming blades. It feels like a subtle, more passive kind of barb, that attacks Jungsu in a way that doesn’t treat him or Gunil as human.
She would call him temptation.
For many reasons, Gunil doesn’t agree. One of them being, he doesn’t think he’s in any way better. Every sticky note Jungsu passes him, he never deigns to read. But he doesn’t dare crumple them and throw them away. He neatly folds them and tucks them in the spaces between his pencils he hopes he’ll never reach for again. He can’t destroy Jungsu’s efforts, try as he might, as much as he should.
On the second week, Jungsu stops with the notes. Instead, he speaks one-sidedly to Gunil, muttering and whispering about his day and the class taking place around them. Sometimes it feels like just them two in the world when he does that. And Gunil wishes it were. It would be much easier that way.
Thursday, Jungsu sits down, thoughtful, teeth denting his bottom lip. “I think Hyeongjun is hiding something from us,” he muses objectively, “I’ve known Jiseok and Jooyeon since high school, but we’ve only just met Hyeongjun. Do you think he’s uncomfortable with that?”
It’s clear he doesn’t expect an answer, it’s just something bothering him, something he can’t really speak aloud to anyone else. But Gunil defies him, and himself really, leans forward, takes out his sticky notes, and writes. I don’t know him. You do. Ask him. I’m sure he’ll tell you when he’s comfortable.
Jungsu studies his reply, and presses the sticky part of the paper to the back of his phone, keeping it there. He doesn’t say anything else, focusing on the lecture. Gunil thinks maybe, by some miracle, that’s the end of it.
♱
The text tone of Gunil’s phone chimes, and though it’s a little late, he thinks it's his mom. Sending him some other this or that article and a reminder to eat and pray. There’s no one else he messages regularly.
It’s a surprise when he picks up his phone and unlocks it, staring down at an unknown number, though the sender is very obvious from the get go. Even when he doesn’t state his name.
Unknown: im gonna add you to a gc
Unknown: dont be scared
Unknown: theyre just nerds
He sits up in his bed, setting his back against the wall, the glint of his phone flashing over his window reflection, catching his eye. He feels pressed to hide his phone in his lap, tapping his thumb over the screen as he waits apprehensively to be added.
Too eagerly, he presses the groupchat when he sees it pop up.
Unknown: is that gunil??? omg
Unknown: I SAID NAMES
Unknown: right sorry
Jiseok: jiseok (gaon) coolest ever
Hyeongjun: Hyeongjun
Jooyeon: jooyeon
Jungsu: yk me :)
Me: Hi
There’s a steady thrum in his bones as he goes through and adds the contacts to his phones. He wonders if there’s something else he should say, but he doesn’t know what, so he just sits back, sliding into an unnatural position curled around his phone, watching the group of friends bicker through the screen.
Hyeongjun: Jungsu
Hyeongjun: Didnt you add him for a reason
Jooyeon: you rlly should turn your caps lock off jun
Hyeongjun: No
Jungsu: right!
Jungsu: gunil.
Jiseok: wanna come to the arcade w us tmrw?
Jungsu: hey i was gonna ask
Jiseok: su rllllllyyy wants you to go
Jungsu: just cause youre cute jiseok
Jungsu: doesnt mean i wont shave your eyebrows off in your sleep
Gunil chews on his cheek, turning off the phone even though it buzzes in his hands, just so the light isn’t shining so brightly in his eye. He’d known this was coming. This was the whole reason he’d given Jungsu his number after all. For some reason, he hadn’t actually expected them to go through with it. Like it had been a courtesy, if anything.
He can’t keep acting like he doesn’t know Jungsu at all anymore though. He squeezes his eyes shut, and lets his fingers move without him really seeing, just so it doesn’t feel entirely in his control when he responds.
Me: Sure
Me: I’m free
Me: I don’t have Friday classes
Jooyeon: luckyyyy
Jooyeon: i have a stupid stats class
Jooyeon: i hate the prof
Jungsu: great!
Jiseok: that was easy
Hyeongjun: What times are we all free then?
Jungsu: i’ll drive
Jooyeon: responsible adult
Hyeongjun: Is that supposed to be an insult?
Jiseok: from him? yeah
A tad overwhelmed, Gunil says he’s free all day and then swiftly turns off his phone notifications, resting his chin on top of the phone screen. His heart beats too fast for a simple phone conversation, but all he can help thinking is:
What in the world did I just get myself into?
♱
Gunil supposes it makes appropriate sense that he sit in the passenger seat while Jungsu’s friends stuff themselves into the back of his considerably spacey car. “Jungsu had to have a minivan,” Jiseok informs, leaning over the console, controlling the radio. Given his height, he’s been delegated the middle seat in the third row without question, and he’s taking advantage of his position.
“He was a grandmother in his past life,” Jooyeon adds with an unironic grin, like he truly believes it in some way.
Hyeongjun is completely silent, engrossed in whatever was happening on his phone that elicits his fingers to move so quickly over the keyboard. Gunil catches Jungsu glance back at him meaningfully, lips pressed together. Gunil sees it. Not quite so much Hyeongjun hiding something. But undeniably, there was something .
It makes sense then, that as some sort of confidant, Jungsu looks to him next, gaze sparking along Gunil’s like flint to unreceptive kindling. Gunil nods once, quickly breaking off eye contact, his neck hot and sticky where it rests against the fabric seats. He makes himself as small as possible in the passenger side, and seriously wonders what had compelled him to agree with this.
The car is anything but silent, what with Jiseok’s music of choice along with his and Jooyeon’s bickering and the harsh humming of the engine drilling into Gunil’s skull. It feels stagnant though, and he’s stuck in the syrupy thick molasses of it. When Jungsu’s elbow brushes his own, it feels like drowning, and as soon as they arrive, he bursts from the car, breathing in fresh air eagerly.
“Carsick?” Jiseok asks, cheerily hopping out alongside him, patting his back. “I get it. There’s two likely reasons for that, you know.”
Looking at him, partially curious, Gunil takes the bait. “What?” Which leads to Jiseok rambling on about things the likes of balance and carbon monoxide alike. Gunil learns Jiseok is particularly affected by the former. He doesn’t know how to explain in response that his was caused by the sheer proximity in an enclosed space with a pretty boy.
He thinks though, inexplicably, that Jiseok would understand, and that scares his mouth shut more than anything else. At least, being occupied by Jiseok, keeps a firm and impermanent distance between him and Jungsu he knows at one point or another on this night, will be closed.
Upon entering, Gunil is dizzied by the arcade. Instead of any flickering fluorescent bulbs or warm yellow lamps, the arcade is lit up by an area-wide blacklight. The carpet is splattered neon beneath his feet. There are so many vibrant geometric patterns within the carpet, his head spins when he looks down.
When he wiggles his feet, his shoes move in a disorienting, glowing blur. He looks up, observes the party he’d come with. His eyes move past the three though, and rest on Jungsu, as they tend to, betraying every other part of him.
Jungsu’s hair is a beaming lilac under the blacklight, and of course the white t-shirt he wears to pair is no less bright. He doesn’t look real, and for an irrational moment of lost clarity, Gunil thinks he isn’t. Then Jungsu catches his stare, and smiles at Gunil, the silver eyeliner he’d chosen today sparkling along his lashes.
He’s ethereal. And Gunil feels absolutely ridiculous using such a word in a tacky arcade .
Jiseok and Jooyeon are quick to break his thoughts, and thank God for that. They slap plastic cards in everybody’s hands. “We bought the play points,” Jooyeon announces, “You guys can pay us back with goods.”
Hyeongjun regards them skeptically, slipping his card in the chest pocket of his flannel, the black of his attire making him a sort of oblivion among everything else. “Goods as in you want us to win you prizes, or you want us to fill your stomachs?”
Clicking his tongue, Jooyeon pats Hyeongjun’s cheek, Hyeongjun ducking violently away from the touch, not unused to it. “However you interpret it, dear Hyeongjun.” Hyeongjun sticks out his tongue at the term of endearment and shoves past the two, a shine of determination in his eye. Gunil has no doubt he’ll wrack up the most points of them five before the night ends.
Feeling like he was moving one second behind the rest of the world, Gunil blinks dumbly at the numerous pinging machines displayed before him, all with their own blinding screens and promising prizes. “I don’t know where to start,” he murmurs to no one in particular.
He only flinches slightly when Jiseok throws his arm around his shoulders, an air of practiced ease about him as if this place were his very own native terrain. “Where you always begin,” he says wisely, “Skeeball. Duh.”
♱
Gunil is enjoying himself. His earlier reservations had him thinking he might not, but he is. Honestly, he learns, with Jiseok and Jooyeon on either of his sides constantly keeping him in bustling, moving company, it’s hard not to have fun. Their joy is contagious, and they’re making absolute sure he’s infected.
More than once is he stuffed in a booth between them while they fantastically fail at defeating some sort of zombie apocalypse, and he finds himself not minding. It’s an absolute waste of points each time, and so he begins to secretly give them his own. There was no particular game he wanted to play anyways.
Quieter and more intent on winning tickets than indulging the brightest lights and flashiest noises, Jungsu and Hyeongjun either trail behind them or wander off on their own, leaving Gunil to be caught in the two’s radiating energy. However, Gunil can only selfishly hope they remain separated like that. When Jooyeon realizes the gap between them, he’s quick to relentlessly pester Hyeongjun back into his and Jiseok’s atmosphere.
Inevitably, that means Gunil can’t ignore Jungsu, try as he might. Not that he’s explicitly trying. He just happens to be grateful that there is distance between them. He could be guilty, but his reserves of guilt have long reached the brim and overflowed. He can’t tell anymore what feels bad or not. Regret tinges his every emotion.
Perhaps it’s the universe’s revenge then, that Jooyeon skip off to become irrationally infatuated with Dance Dance Revolution and Jiseok and Hyeongjun pair up to get as many jackpots as was humanly possible.
Leaving Jungsu and Gunil alone here, in front of a claw machine with untouched stuffed animals, all adorable. Gunil stares at them intently, as it’s better than letting himself stare at Jungsu instead. Jungsu interprets this some sort of way and comes up beside Gunil, their shoulders flush together as Jungsu swipes his playcard.
Stepping carefully away, Gunil licks his lips, fiddling with the cross hanging from his neck. “Which one are you going for?” he asks, purely for the sake of trading out the tense silence that plagues them with anything else. He goes to one side of the claw machine, pressing his forehead to the glass.
There’s a space between his question and Jungsu’s response, and he looks up, peering through the two panes of glass now between them, and catches Jungsu eyeing him carefully. Straightening, yet to move the claw, Jungsu tilts his head. “I don’t know. Pick one for me?” He gives Gunil a small smile, thin lipped and persuading.
Feeling possibly like he’s being tricked into something, Gunil surveys the many different pastel colors in animal shapes. He taps his finger on the glass decidedly. “The green one.” His eyes flick to Jungsu and he debates it before offering an encouraging smile in return.
Determined, Jungsu purses his lips together and begins moving the claw like it was his most important purpose on this earth before he moved on to the next, feathery wings, neon halo, and all. Gunil can’t help moving closer, silently cheering him on.
If he were different, if maybe he wasn’t so damn guilty, he would hold Jungsu’s shoulder, and lean against him, and it would ultimately distract Jungsu. He would fail, and Gunil would laugh into his stupid white t-shirt. The satisfaction of it would be a greater prize to them than any stuffed toy.
He backs up just slightly, stuffing his hands firmly into his pockets as Jungsu takes a painstaking few minutes to position the claw just right. He hovers his finger above the giant red button and looks over his shoulder at Gunil, flashing his teeth. “Watch. I’ll get it first try.” He dares Gunil to disagree.
Raising a brow, Gunil hums skeptically. Challenged, Jungsu presses the button, and faces away from the claw machine, crossing his arms and making firm eye contact with Gunil, judging if he’d been right by Gunil’s reaction alone. Gunil swallows, jittery under his gaze, watching with a steady, unblinking gaze as the claw drops and grabs just what he’d been looking at.
His mouth parts and Jungsu raises his hands in the air, cheering. “I told you so!” he gloats happily, bending down and retrieving whatever it was he’d valiantly won. Gunil can’t find it in him to be even a smidgen miffed. Only endeared.
Only able to attempt stifling his growing smile, Gunil leans against the game next to the claw machine. “Dumb luck,” he remarks, but a child could detect the fondness in his voice, lenient and simpering. “What’d you get?”
With both hands, Jungsu extracts the plushie from its metal cage, admiring it with childlike adoration before coming near Gunil. “A dinosaur? Cat? One or the other.” Then, unexpectedly, he thrusts it against Gunil’s chest. Gunil stumbles to keep it from falling to the dirty floor, and Jungsu looks more than pleased.
“Keep it. I’d say you helped me get it.”
Gunil gapes, looking between the terribly soft plushie and Jungsu like he’d been handed a newborn bear cub to caretake. He feels heat and ice lance along his back, pushing up to stand flat on his feet shaking his head. That’s way too much of a date thing. Surely, it isn’t like that. “No, I don’t—”
Very abruptly, Jooyeon appears from a void in the semi-darkness of the arcade and grips Jungsu by the arm. “Jungsu,” he says seriously, raising Jungsu’s alerts. “Jiseok and I need actual competition and Hyeongjun refuses to dance.” Before Jungsu’s expression can even properly morph from worry to exasperation, Jooyeon is pulling him along to wherever the Dance Dance Revolution machine sits.
Alone, stricken, Gunil stands there stupidly, left rigid in his place. Involuntarily, he rubs his thumbs over the soft fabric of the stuffed animal, and he resumes examining it in a sort of dumbfounded awe. It’s really soft.
There’s a lump in his throat, and a jagged skip in his pulse. He’s inexplicably torn between crying and smiling with all the gooeyness in his system. There’s plenty he’s gathered over the years, unable to properly expel. It’s so much it threatens to suffocate him now, at the simplest of gestures.
A simple gesture, and to Gunil, an incredibly dangerous one as well.
Still, he breaks, gives in, pulling it close and hooking his chin over the creature’s cotton-filled head, finding himself resembling it in that respect. His eyes slide over to the claw machine it had come from, and he finds himself moving almost against his will, sliding his card and watching the screen flash green, then red.
That was the last of his points. All the rest having been secretly handed off to Jooyeon and Jiseok. He had one chance to do this, and his strained vision and shaky hands aren’t incredibly promising, but he seeks the easiest pick of the stuffies, and he aims for it with unneeded concentration.
It’s easier to forget how much he’s internally panicking, when he’s wholly focused on getting this. It’s like studying. It makes it just slightly easier to forget the wrath of Hell when Hell is tucked neatly between your hands in the form of an econ textbook, or in this case—the joystick of a claw machine.
Just as he places his hand over the red button, Jungsu somehow noiselessly manages to make his way behind Gunil, the tip of his chin grazing Gunil’s shoulder. Gunil startles, hand slamming down. Together, Gunil’s heart racing in his chest, they watch the crane fall. It picks up the stuffed animal.
“Okay,” Gunil mutters, voice shaky. He can’t even move away from Jungsu, he’s trapped. He should mind a lot more than he does. “This machine has to be the opposite of rigged.”
Thank God, Jungsu gives him some space to retrieve the prize. Without even looking at it, or looking anywhere but the floor really, Gunil throws it at Jungsu’s head. “Now we’re even,” he mumbles, pocketing his now empty arcade card.
Jungsu’s responding smile is downright maiming. His eyes scrunching and his cheeks puffing up under the force of it. “It’s cute.” His voice is too soft, too ginger and velvet. It doesn’t fit in the brashness of the arcade. It doesn’t fit anywhere near Gunil. Jungsu looks at Gunil through his silver-flecked eyelashes, hugging the stuffed animal closer. “Reminds me of you.”
There’s no rational way to explain the sudden heat in Gunil’s cheeks, and he’s glad the blacklight can’t pick up on it. He’s also glad he’s saved from having to give a proper reaction, by more than just Jooyeon this time, bombarding them. Jiseok and Jooyeon both cling to each one of Jungsu’s shoulders, almost severely toppling him off balance.
Following in their trail, Hyeongjun collects the cards from their back pockets. Gunil offers his own. He earns a thankful smile from Hyeongjun, and it warms him in a different way than Jungsu’s smile does. Less like the burning of Icarus, more pleasant and mellow.
“Hey, let’s go home for drinks,” Jooyeon suggests, already drunk on energy, why not simmer down some other way.
Jungsu appears very uncertain about that, and while Hyeongjun and Jiseok wordlessly agree, Jungsu and Gunil both know who’s the problem. Gunil swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. He chokes Jungsu’s gift in his arms, nervous and apprehensive. But under Jooyeon’s pleading gaze, it’s only obvious he give in.
Jungsu sighs, shoving the two off of him, standing straight and running his hands through his hair. Gunil politely looks away, adam’s apple bobbing. “Alright. I’m staying sober though.” After all, he was Gunil’s ride.
♱
“Choice of drink?” Jooyeon shouts to him, raiding their cabinet for their illegal possession of drinks Gunil has to wonder how exactly they got obtained. The shot glasses Jooyeon pulls out for him and Jiseok alone, is enough to make Gunil wary.
Trying to appear only a fraction as nervous as he feels, Gunil shrugs, grins lopsidedly, the smile threatening to slip off his face and take him with it. “Wouldn't happen to have wine, would you?” He could feel better, if he was ingesting an alcohol he was sickeningly familiar with.
Glancing at him curiously, Hyeongjun kicks open the fridge. “Is hard lemonade sufficient?” Yeah, that was probably for the better. Wine might have made him nauseous. Awkward, Gunil nods, accepting the glass bottle that sits bubblegum pink and chilled in one hand, holding Jungsu’s gift in the other.
His eyes wander over the interior, the contained cluttered chaos of it teeming up onto the walls. “You all live here?” he asks. He stops before the coffee table. Everyone already seems to be sat in their place, Jiseok and Jooyeon sharing an obscenely large armchair, Hyeongjun curling into a fluffy bean bag. The only space for Gunil happens to be right beside Jungsu on the stiff-looking corduroy couch. Because, of course.
Sucking in his chest, Gunil passes by Jungsu’s legs and plops on the couch. Jungsu has a thermal water bottle cradled between his thighs, playing with the handle back and forth habitually. “Yeah. Jooyeon, Jiseok, and I saw this place, and needed a fourth roomie, and…”
“That’s where I showed up,” Hyeongjun finishes, looking through his notifications intently. “Sometimes I think it was a mistake.”
Clinking his glass against the small table beside their chair, Jooyeon glares with a smile. “You absolutely love us, don’t lie.” The bottle he and Jiseok are sharing, makes Gunil very glad Hyeongjun and Jungsu live with them.
Not looking up, Hyeongjun smirks. “Maybe.”
Hesitantly, Gunil plays with the cap of his bottle. The vibrance of the pink of it almost scares him. Well, a lot about it scares him. Jungsu spares him a worried glance, and before he can do anything as bold as try to comfort Gunil or assure him of anything, he tips the bottle back and takes a giant swig. Immediately, he pulls a face, the sourness and sharp bitterness sliding over his tongue and down his throat.
“Sorry,” he says, nose scrunched, “I don’t like the feeling of lemonade. Makes my mouth dry.”
Jiseok holds his drink up to Gunil, as if cheering or toasting him. “That’s citric acids for you,” he chirps, already looking a bit ruddy, eyes sparkling just a little bit more than they usually do in the ambient lighting of his own home. Gunil has the gall to envy him in that moment, cuddled into Jooyeon’s side, shamelessly buzzed, and happy about it all.
Gunil swallows more of his lemonade, reacting less and less with each tentative sip. “Have you drank before?” Jungsu asks, setting his water bottle down and pulling his legs up over the couch, making it to where there was no option of space between them. Gunil can’t escape his snare of endless supply of concern. No one can, it would seem.
Pursing his lips, watching the pink drink twirl in his hand, Gunil shrugs. “I have. Don’t worry, Jungsu.” He lets his head fall against the cushions of the couch, looking over Jungsu’s way, staring over Jungsu’s head particularly. “This isn’t peer pressure.”
Jungsu snorts, prodding Gunil’s side roughly with his socked foot. “Jerk,” he mutters, not all too aggrieved.
Gunil wraps his arm around the dinosaur cat, and discreetly pushes himself as far away from Jungsu as is possible on the couch, hiding his cheek in the soft cotton-filled fleece. He doesn’t really talk. He’s just as well off laying there, letting the steady flow of the others’ conversation wash over him.
Half of his drink is gone, and all it earns him is a low buzzing in the back of his head that warps the edges of his vision in the slightest of ways. He’s distinctly aware that he’s on a spinning planet, and it’s a wonder none of it gives him vertigo.
On the side of him, he feels Jungsu shifting. Soon, they’re sharing the same side of the couch, and Gunil doesn’t fight him off. He nudges Gunil’s shoulder, voice soft. “Are you alright?”
Sitting up with a quick, not unkind sigh, Gunil doesn’t know where to look, his eyes landing on their thighs pressed together, their hands centimeters apart, or Jungsu’s neck, just right there, right beside him. He leans forward, setting down the bottle, mind turning to mush at the sight.
“It’s just a hard lemonade,” Gunil says, “I’m fine, really. Don’t worry. Just tired I guess. Not…not used to this.” He pushes the stuffed animal into the caverns of his ribs, feeling his heart all over, loud and resonant.
Jungsu’s gaze is like sunlight through a microscope, burning steaming holes into Gunil’s cheek. “Did you have fun at least?” he asks, hopeful. From his peripherals, Gunil sees Jungsu’s shoulder shift, leaning just slightly more towards him, the tufts of his hair appearing feather light in Gunil’s hazy vision.
It comes out easier than he expects, the truth. “Most fun I’ve had in years,” Gunil admits, “Maybe in forever. You guys are cool. Thanks for wanting to hang out even if—even if I didn’t make it easy.” He frowns, biting down on his tongue. He’s already talking more than he wants to. If he keeps going, he might just call Jungsu pretty to his face.
Jungsu shrugs, sitting back fully. “It wasn’t that hard. I think you’re different than you think you are.”
Gunil doesn’t dignify that with a response. He stands suddenly. Jungsu jerks forward, hands hovering around Gunil. “Lemonade, Jungsu. Just lemonade,” Gunil reminds. His head may not be sitting on his neck right, but his balance is more off in the ears than in the legs.
Pinkening slightly, Jungsu joins him on his feet. “You ready to leave?”
“Yeah.” He turns to the others, accepting a clumsy hug from Jiseok and then Jooyeon. Waving goodbye to Hyeongjun while Hyeongjun stands to see him off with hospitality. “Take me home now?”
“‘Course,” Jungsu says quickly, pacing out of the living room. “Need anything before you leave?” He shrugs on a zip-up hoodie, patting Hyeongjun on the arm as he reaches for his keys hung up on a hook in the wall.
Gunil shakes his head, coming up behind Jungsu. Careful distance. Careful. Distance. “No, I’m good.” He sticks his head past the archway of the living room one last time. “Bye guys! Thanks for inviting me.”
Jooyeon looks to be falling asleep, comfortable on Jiseok’s shoulder. Gunil stares at them a moment, Jiseok sending him a soft-eyed smile. “We’ll do it again for sure. You’re awesome.” He swipes Jooyeon’s hair from his face, melting into the armchair. Gunil looks away.
Hyeongjun goes to sit back down and Jungsu opens the door, looking back at Gunil. “Ready?”