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Soobin dreams about auburn hair in shades of black and white. Dark eyes and warm skin, stripped of the colors he recalls so easily when awake, but filled with something much more important instead.
In his dream, Beomgyu bathes in a marble bathtub filled with pearls, and he’s dripping with memories. His hand hangs over the lip, and the memory of his fingers gliding over the back of Soobin’s hand slowly drips off of the tips of Beomgyu’s fingers and onto the polished stone below. From his hair, rivulets of Beomgyu’s head on Soobin’s shoulder, his hair brushing Soobin’s jaw, soft and sweet-smelling in his rose-tinted memories, rush down Beomgyu’s peaceful face, over his half-closed eyelids, down his long eyelashes that give under the weight of Soobin’s recollection like tree leaves give under the pelting of rain, over his cheeks, curving around his open mouth that’s wet with the memory of a kiss Soobin doesn’t think he could ever forget. He’s saying something, and the sound of it, the sound of his voice is gone just like the colors of him but the words are spilling out of his mouth, gushing like blood, like he’s choking on them, like nothing can stop the onslaught of them even if they scratch and tear the throat coming up.
Beomgyu drenches the pearls embracing the muscle of his breast in whispered confessions and sweet lies and tear-filled goodbyes, in his laughter and screaming that leaves his throat hoarse and dreams of the future shared in what seemed like a world just for the two of them back then, just the two of them and four walls and six beers and candy that tastes sweet on Beomgyu’s tongue but turns sour when it lingers in Soobin’s own mouth afterwards. Beomgyu’s hand, with a shiny ring on his finger that blinds Soobin with reflected light when he tries to focus on it, smears the memories of old in-jokes and backhanded compliments, the more sincere ones spoken in a choked tone they’d brush away with a smile, all over his shoulders, across his own throat, bathing himself in them before his hand dives down, under the surface, and the pearls spill over the lip of the bathtub, and Beomgyu’s mouth curves into a smile, and as the pearls hit the floor one by one they make the sound of a windchime, caught on the rising wind of an oncoming thunderstorm.
Soobin watches Beomgyu make waves in the sea of pearls, watching them burst over the lip like sprays of seafoam with childlike glee, with a smile on his wet, stained mouth. The chime gets louder, like claps of thunder as the pearls roll out in waves.
When Beomgyu pulls his hand out of the bath, his colorless arm is coated in dark red blood. He brings it to his own lips, sucks on his own arm, lets the thick liquid flow down his chin with the words he spilled earlier, drinking of his own wine.
Soobin is thirsty, maybe he’s dying of thirst in the desert of pearls he is ankles deep in now. But he will not drink.
Soobin sees the world in the sparkling white light of a morning after a storm. When he steps out of his room and into the main room of the house, the curtains are haphazardly opened and the door to the veranda is thrown wide carelessly. Outside, past the carved wooden balustrade, the grass of the back garden is glowing with morning dew. It’s too early to be awake, really, but the loud song of the birds outside and the cigarette smoke slipping into the house along with the fresh morning air begs otherwise.
He peeks through the doorway carefully, approaching as quietly as his stature allows him. Beomgyu’s back is to him, bare and glowing just like the grass he’s facing. He’s too thin, and his sleep pants are barely held up by a messy double knot; his fingers are bony, knobby when he flicks his cigarette into the handmade ashtray he likes to carry around the house wherever he goes. It’s his lucky charm, he says. To Soobin, and to everyone else, it just looks like an old piece of junk, and maybe that’s the point.
When he spies no mug in Beomgyu’s hand or by his side, Soobin sneaks past the doorway and into the kitchen to make them both tea. Beomgyu prefers a coffee in the morning, but Soobin never thought that was too good for his health, so he reaches for the tea leaves instead.
As he’s putting the kettle on, he wonders if the noise will let Beomgyu know he’s awake, and with a warmth settling into his limbs after the chill another night of restless dreams instilled in him, he imagines a smile slowly blooming on Beomgyu’s face, the spring in his step as he’d walk over to the kitchen, lean on the doorway with a mischievous look on his face, his hip cocked and his ashtray tucked safely between the tips of his fingers. He’d tell Soobin good morning and smile with his eyes, and his smile would soften when he’d notice that Soobin was making him tea as well, and he’d say something teasing about Soobin expecting company, and Soobin would say something flirty about how he’s the only company that he needs, and Beomgyu would be taken aback by the forwardness. He’d blush and look away, and while he’d be thinking of something clever to say, Soobin would abandon the kettle and walk over to him to embrace him, and maybe Beomgyu would melt into his arms like he belonged there, like he had a night as rough as Soobin had but found solace from it in their closeness, or maybe he’d squirm, still playful in his fresh morning mood, or maybe he’d kiss Soobin, gently like he loves him, or softly like they’ve done this a thousand times and find comfort in the familiarity, or firmly like he needs to remind himself of how it feels, or boyishly clumsy like Soobin remembers. Maybe he’d kiss him messy, because he missed Soobin so badly. Maybe he would…
The kettle finishes boiling the water in silence, and Soobin finishes making their tea with a sleepy sort of acceptance. He’s too sluggish yet to feel anything, about the absence of footsteps rushing to come see him, first thing in the morning, about the absence of Beomgyu’s mouth on his, the absence of Beomgyu’s body against his even though it’s a chilly morning and there would be nothing, not a single thing more warming than his presence.
Soobin puts sugar in his own tea, but hesitates with the spoon over Beomgyu’s. Beomgyu never puts sugar in his tea, no matter how strong it is, or what kind. Sometimes he tells a joke about liking to suffer through the bitterness, but he never laughs when he says it. Soobin wants to add the sugar, but he’s not strong enough to. Not to add the sugar, but to see Beomgyu’s face when he takes his first sip.
He likes seeing all of Beomgyu’s emotions play across his features, beautiful as they are, but he was never a fan of disappointment. The beauty of it soured too quickly every time.
He brings the two mugs of tea out onto the veranda, sipping on his sweetened tea as he goes, and the sugar clings to his tongue along with some hope for this morning yet.
In the end, he gets at least a smile for his trouble when Beomgyu notices the second mug as he looks over to watch Soobin approach him.
His mouth opens, and Soobin hears it – are you expecting company? – it’s dripping from his ears as he comes to a stop by the balustrade Beomgyu is leaning on, a false memory. He wills Beomgyu to say it, to sound playful and mischievous, but what he says is, “Thanks – how come you’re up already?”
And Soobin has no answer that doesn’t start with, I watched you eat yourself alive in a sea of pearls, so he makes vague sounds until the question goes away. Eventually, Beomgyu chases it away himself with a sip of his tea, then keeps the golden rim of it pressed into his bottom lip as he exhales heavily, tearing apart the feathery strings of steam rising from the mug. Soobin knows, can tell already, that another question, or maybe just a repetition of the first one, is fighting its way out of Beomgyu’s mouth right now, and he anticipates it with the grim acceptance of a death row inmate, staring at Beomgyu’s profile to distract himself from it while still so painfully aware of its inevitability.
The gold detailing on the cup just makes the band on Beomgyu’s finger shine all the brighter in the daylight, and Soobin wishes it hurt his eyes as badly as it did in his dream, so he could make himself stop staring at it.
“Did you get any sleep? The storm was pretty rough.”
In his head, Soobin says, you’re the only company I need, and out loud, once he’s washed the bitterness down with some sweet tea, he says, “I slept.”
And Beomgyu hums and smokes a cigarette and doesn’t offer to share.
Soobin sees red, or maybe he sees green, maybe his eyes have permanently turned an emerald shade somewhere along the way. Lunch is loud and busy, there are so many people in the house and they spill over from room to room without any rhyme or reason Soobin can discern. All the food they ordered is piled up on a table in the kitchen, the guests steadily chipping away at it and the alcohol lining the counter. It feels like more of a midday party than a lunch, but then again, Soobin has never been all that social himself, maybe he just doesn’t know what it’s like to have twenty friends with the time for social calls at noon on a Thursday. He thinks he could have gone all his life without knowing.
Stealing brief moments of Beomgyu for himself is a frustrating ordeal, and Soobin feels like a ghost hunter, chasing an auburn-haired apparition through the house, following fragments of conversation spoken in a familiar voice, catching glimpses of a smile that haunts his dreams, of a cream-colored sleeve waving in the air as Beomgyu gestures as he tells a joke.
It’s hard to know where Beomgyu is, and it’s even harder to find excuses to stay there. He knows some of these people: he knows Yeonjun, who compliments Beomgyu’s hair and turns up his nose at Soobin like he always does before offering to drink with him on the sofa as soon as Beomgyu flutters away like a restless butterfly, he knows Taehyun, who laughs at all of Beomgyu's jokes and watches Soobin with a wary, knowing gaze while he hovers at the edge of their conversation, an awkward scarecrow out of place in the lively atmosphere. He knows Kai, whose permanent mask of pained compassion he puts on whenever Soobin is in his vicinity only slips to reveal his naked admiration of Beomgyu whenever the latter starts winding the whole group around his finger with skill maybe only he alone possesses. They all love Beomgyu, in one way or another, just like everyone else in the house, just as helplessly as Soobin does, and Beomgyu bestows his attention upon them with the grace and magnanimity of a king. He's fair and generous with his time, barely settling down enough to drink a sip of wine, much less to eat a bite of the heap of food he ordered for his guests.
Beomgyu doesn't ignore Soobin – he includes him in conversations when he manages to position himself close to Beomgyu's side while he's chatting and the topic at hand allows for it, he touches Soobin's arm from time to time while introducing him to forgettable face after forgettable face, while telling small amusing stories of their childhood to make his friends' stiff, snobbish expressions relax into something a little more accepting. He's too good to neglect one guest in favor of others, and Soobin doesn't for a second think that any of the elation Beomgyu showed when Soobin showed up at his doorstep, any of the palpable relief that felt to be bordering on gratitude he threw himself into Soobin's embrace with, is anything but genuine. Beomgyu loves him, as much as a man can love a pleasant memory, but he's too good of a host to love him more than he loves any of the others. Or maybe he loves stories about rendezvous under Arc de Triomphe and bottles of wine shared in a cabin near Valencia with published poets, lovely Swiss vacations and expensive Berlin shopping sprees than stories about an attic apartment and a middling writing career, than memories of long summers spent almost exclusively in each other's company, intertwined fingers and Soobin's teeth cutting a warpath up Beomgyu's thigh in an act of possessive desperation, hungry for the way Beomgyu's pupils widened in what he could never decide was either fear or desire when he finally understood the depth of need Soobin was holding back before.
Maybe the memories are just faded, rubbed pale and indistinct from being taken out and dusted off to admire one too many times, and something that felt so precious back then, when it was new and clean and raw like an open wound, is just an ugly scar with a story that makes you smile sometimes by now.
Or maybe Beomgyu keeps those memories buried, somewhere along with his thoughts, with his feelings, with the thoughts and dreams he used to share so eagerly, with passion and conviction behind his voice, that he hides behind this brilliant, beautiful smiling mask now, and that poke out from beneath their careful cover with their jagged, rough edges.
He’s so content, he doesn’t think about the future, really, with his fingers stained with tobacco and yellowed teeth. He never feels lonely, when his ribs are showing, he doesn't really have any ambitions left anymore, this is enough for him, this is good, and he never sits down, keeps flitting, haunting room after room, diving into conversation after conversation, laughing, yelling, teasing, like it would kill him if he stopped. Like silence would make him go mad if he allowed it to creep in.
He's quiet in the mornings, but that's what the cigarettes are for.
Does he think about Soobin then? Does he think about them? Does he have regrets? Does he even dream?
Soobin sees nothing but gold. Up above them, in the chandelier dripping with crystals, glittering with reflections of it's golden frame. On the walls, on the decor, on the tablecloths. In Beomgyu's eyes that catch the light, in the embroidery on his fancy ascot tie, his finger, his watch, his dazzling smile.
He's there – for once, He's right where He should be, at Beomgyu's side, letting Beomgyu's hand rest in the crook of His elbow. There is gold on the lapels of His suit, matching Beomgyu, with a matching ring on His ring finger, a flash of silver in His hair and that same detached look of semi-polite disinterest on His face that Soobin has grown to hate. They look good together, slotting together like puzzle pieces. His arms are just thick enough to make Beomgyu's look as pretty and small as they deserve to. He's cold where Beomgyu is warm; reserved where Beomgyu is friendly. He forgets names and Beomgyu reminds him readily, Beomgyu blanks on the name of an art piece and He is there to refresh his memory. Like a well-oiled machine, a parade float of gold, silver and auburn, they make their rounds around the room and have heads turn their way wherever they pass.
Soobin drags his somber, rickety cart behind them, the exhausted entourage to the royal couple. He's wearing black, because he's only had to dress up for funerals these days. The gray suit he graduated in, the one that had Beomgyu's cologne all over the collar, isn't big enough for him anymore.
And once again, Beomgyu does not forget him. Wherever they go, even though He is around, Beomgyu's elegant neck turns to point that brilliant, golden mask at him and call his name, so he can shake another pristine hand with his own ink-stained, calloused one, and try to not lose courage to talk about things that matter to him the most in the world aside from the memory of auburn hair and evenings that felt like dreams to him while faced with quickly clouding eyes. He says something about Kafka, and they ask if he's ever been to Vienna. Beomgyu laughs. They recommend a cafe, the name of which Soobin does not bother remembering. When he mentions his writer's block to a beautiful young woman in a shimmering white gown, she offers him cocaine with a coquettish laugh. Beomgyu laughs as well, unbothered.
The worst part is, Soobin thinks he sees it. Sees the pearly luster of it all. Beomgyu shakes hands too, uncertain hands, young hands, smiles at unsure faces framed with clothes as shabby as Soobin's are, and his own eyes never cloud over with disinterest. The champagne is delicious and the finger food ridiculous, His hands never leave Beomgyu's body, and everything is so dreamlike, so saturated in sunshine when drenched in gold. It's beautiful; it makes Beomgyu look beautiful, and Soobin can tell that he feels that way as well. Whatever he is when the lights dim, right now he is a god, floating across the sky on his golden chariot, he's a king holding court.
Right now, he is perfect.
Soobin can barely see anything in the dark. He's gone again; the house is so empty when it's quiet, the vast expanse of it more of a wasteland than a palace. Soobin follows the smell of smoke blindly, until a light comes to view.
A lamp on a plastic-covered floor, casting warm yellow light around itself. Another shade of gold.
Beomgyu is barefoot, one leg dangling off the stool while he keeps the other one near his chest. He has his ring in one hand, and the cigarette in the other.
The easel in front of him is covered in swaths of color, something almost violent to them, manic, but they come together in a visage Soobin recognizes easily from his vantage point, from far enough away. It's His face, His broad shoulders, His eyes, His sophisticated disinterest. Loud, screaming from the canvas. Distinguished and cold.
Maybe they both see Him the same way, he and Beomgyu. Maybe Beomgyu isn't as blind as he likes to appear.
Beomgyu sucks languidly on his cigarette, then reaches out and presses it onto the canvas, until it burns through it. He breathes in through his nose, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter. Flicks it on, off. On, off.
On.
He looks over his shoulder, at Soobin.
Off.
He looks back at the painting, and kicks his dangling foot back and forth.
On.
He reaches out towards the easel.
Soobin thinks he sees clearly, for once in his life. Beomgyu is drinking black coffee out of a fine china cup, clutching his ashtray in the other hand. It's a strange, mismatched scene. The tall arched doorway, Beomgyu's sweatpants, bare feet on marble. Bitter coffee in a china cup. Emerald green ashtray in a gentle hand adorned with gold. His smile, and the lack of joy in his eyes. A “take care” with no “goodbye”.
It's quiet again, empty. Beomgyu has a strip of blue paint smeared up his forearm. In Soobin's dreams, he's drenched in blue and gilded with gold. Drowning, sinking, trimmed with pearls. Hungry, thirsting, unfulfilled.
Smiling. Filled with memories.
“It was good to see you again.”
Putting out cigarettes on mirrors.
“Don’t be a stranger.”
Setting fire to his own sleeves to marvel at the flames.
“And write me into one of those books of yours, would you?”