Archive of Our Own

"It's not hard to find you.

You're everywhere, in my thoughts, especially.

I see you in places you aren't even in;

But most of all I see you where I am.

You're a ghost I would never be afraid of."

– Whistleblower, Clover.

Lee Jeonghyeon. Pen name: Clover, is the nation's most adored romantic writer who had been in the field since he was twenty-two, who had nearly twenty years of experience and hundreds of books, novels, poems, screenplays, and songs written with his name. Everyone who had listened to the newest song released earlier this week would know who Lee Jeonghyeon is. Everyone who had watched the most awarded screenplay adaptation of The Rose I Envy would know who he is, because that was his book and that was his movie. His name always echoed and there wasn't a day it wasn't mentioned randomly by some actor or actress, or even just a random by-passer.

It was safe to say that Lee Jeonghyeon was a solid name in the industry of writing.

Han Yujin, however, was not.

Sixteen is too young, they said, but this sixteen year-old was daring enough to volunteer himself to write an interview with the Lee Jeonghyeon. This sixteen year old was fresh out of highschool after taking a skip year and a scholarship program. This sixteen year old had been writing since he was nine and unless people had forgotten, Han Yujin was an aspiring writer. Kim fucking Jiwoong, the opera actor himself, had brought up his name twice at an interview of his favorite pieces from the boy last month. He, as much as his older brothers say he was just a boy, was ready to prove himself to the world and create a crater from where he stood.

But sixteen was… sixteen was maybe too big of a number for someone who wanted to shrivel up like a raisin and hide from the scrutiny of the world.

"Go away." he mutters, head in his hands as he keeps staring at the bold, capitalized words written front back and center on the Times' daily newspaper. It reads, through tear stained layers of paper and crumpled edges: 'Han Yujin, Maker or Breaker of Lee Jeonghyeon's Final Public Appearance!' "I'm going to fucking die."

Gyuvin claps a dramatic hand against his mouth. Then Gunwook smacks a larger hand on top of Gyuvin's, and they both look so fucking stupid right now that Yujin just wanted to die and take his adamant request for interviewing the nation's heartthrob.

"I hate you both."

Gunwook acts like Yujin just shot him with three bullets, Gyuvin pretends he got hit with four, and it takes Yujin counting to five and chasing them with a goddamn slipper to get them to stop laughing at him.

"It's not fucking funny!" 

"Alright! But don't be so dramatic about it." Gyuvin says through coughs of his dwindling laughter.

"Yujin, our sweet, sweet summer child, it's not the end of the world." Gunwook pats a hand on his back, gentle and firm with the same polite smile that always said Please don't be mad I already stopped laughing, scold Gyuvin instead, and Yujin would always non-verbally reply with his You are not safe from my wrath look before redirecting his attention back to Gyuvin.

"I thought you wanted this piece?" Gunwook asks.

"He did. He does. The title of that fucking issue's just so goddamn bad that our little Yujinnie feels pressured." Gyuvin says without picking himself up from the ground, limbs scattered around with one hand trying to ease the pain in his stomach while the other hides the shit-eating grin from their youngest.

Kim Gyuvin, Park Gunwook, Han Yujin, from their names alone you could already guess what they were: they were brothers, although not by blood and certainly not by law. Because they were bonded with something stronger than that: choice.

They were a big family of three. At least, for Yujin, it was big. Being stuck between two giants namely Kim Gyuvin and Park Gunwook would make you feel small, as one would, even though he was extremely average sized. They were his lifelines, and they had made it very evident that their presence would leave an extremely large gap in Yujin's life–a scenario that they promised would never happen even if death was at their doorstep.

But that wasn't enough of a reason to not want to kill them and bury them six feet under, even if Yujin was sure his older brothers would literally raise themselves from the dead and build themselves back from acid water just to bother their little shit of a brother.

"My little champion is going to put himself out there and make a name for himself. I'm literally about to cry, this is so–" Gyuvin sobs into the younger's knit sweater, practically laying himself on top of him just to hug every part of him.

"Please, for the love of god, do not cry–" Yujin tries to beg Gyuvin.

Unfortunately for him, there was Gunwook, intense crier number 2.

"We're so proud of you. We're so–" Gunwook's voice cracks before he sneezes into his elbow, and then returns his head into Yujin's shoulder, crying and sobbing and snotting all over his favorite sweater.

It takes them an hour of cuddling together in the messy pile of blankets that Gyuvin liked to call his bed before they're finally able to speak without hiccuping through tears.

"It's okay to cry." Gyuvin consoles him, pinning the underside of his chin on top of the younger boy's head, as if he himself wasn't crying.

Yujin sniffles, gulping down the sob that's been threatening to fall, except his pride tells him not to. "I won't."

And because they know Yujin hates crying because he thinks it makes him look weak, Gunwook tells him, "We know you want to. It's okay to let it out." While rubbing his elbow, bear hugging him into the cushions.

Yujin sighs, "It's overwhelming." he finally admits, letting his head fall onto the soft pillow layed calculatedly behind him, "I just thought it would be simple, an interview. That's it. But now I apparently have to write the most bombshell fucking piece with him because newsflash: it's his last!"

"Did they tell you it would be when you submitted your offer?" Gunwook asks.

"No," Yujin squeeks, suddenly remembering the fucking resume he even made in the first place. It made him sound like a dork, probably, and they thought he was desperate enough to do anything just to write about Lee Jeonghyeon. They probably think he's stupid, and easy, and whatever the fuck-else beration shit they've got going on. His fingers grasp around each other, laying on top of his stomach as he squeezed it tight, knuckles turning white. "I was told it would be important, but not to this scale."

Gunwook nods, fingers wrapping itself securely around Yujin's body, making sure that not a single move would be made.

Sixteen was young enough to be thrust into the world. Yujin would know, he's been in it since he was nine and washing the dishes at the back of the diner for the minimal pay. Sixteen was old enough to look out onto the street while he was cleaning the tables and windows during the opening shift. But sixteen was too young to have so many eyes on him.

"Well, for one, I think this is a great thing." Gunwook assures him, earning a supportive hum from Gyuvin and nothing from Yujin. He goes on. "Think of it as a way of him telling you that he trusts your young, fresh, brewing talent to carry on his legacy."

Gyuvin shares the same sentiment, offering back-up for Gunwook, "I think so too. Lee Jeonghyeon probably saw your work and went Oh, shit! I need this one to write for me, abso-fucking-lutely!' Yeah?" he nudges Gunwook, who gives him an enthusiastic response by nodding his head.

Yujin purses his lips together, the worries still growing deep inside his stomach. "And what if I disappoint him?" He says, eyebrows scrunched together and eyes low as he thought of a thousand new headlines with his name on it, all saying how lack-luster and low-quality it was, how anyone could've done it and it shouldn't've been him. His voice is firmer now, concrete and sure that he would fail, "What if I break his career and fuck everything up for myself in the end?"

Because the possibility was still there, after all: just because he was a great writer and Lee Jeonghyeon had an established name in the industry, doesn't mean that he had a safety net to fall on if he did possibly produce the most shit work known to man. Even famous people fail, it's just that he wasn't famous and rich and hot-topic; the possibility of his whole career was on the line, holding onto the hook which had been every single piece he had worked on. Yujin hadn't even started yet but he was already finished. Now, wouldn't that be a headline?

Gyuvin grumbles, his large, warm palm enveloping Yujin's intertwined hands in one sweep. He startles the boy and settles him immediately afterwards as he thumbs through the knuckles, breaking the two hands apart. He rubs a comforting thumb onto each bone as he nudges his chin onto the boy's head, "You're going to be the greatest writer there is out there, remember? You told us that you'll get out there and shake the world and shit. Well, this is your chance." Gyuvin reminds him, pressing his thumb lightly onto the pads of his palm. "I know how big this is for you, and I would sell my leg and my dog on the line to bet that this one is a maker."

Gunwook snorts, bangs falling in front of his eyes before he's combing it to the side and behind his ears again, smiling at the two as he sits up. "You'd do that to Eumppappa?"

"Theoretically, I would."

"In practice, you should." Yujin responds, earning a light slap on his shoulder from Gyuvin to which Gunwook laughs at.

Gunwook reaches for both of their hands, intertwining it together as he hums silently, thinking. "Yujin, if it gets a little too much for you, we'll always be there for you to fall back on. You know that right?"

Yujin mumbles, "Of course I do."

Gunwook nods, "No matter how discouraging other people get, always remember that they're just a bunch of outsiders trying to get in your head." The older tells him, combing the younger's hair into place with trained, delicate hands. "You're going to write a great piece with Lee Jeonghyeon and you're going to show them why it has to be you who's writing it and not anyone else."

And for once, Sixteen can be young enough. Sixteen can be sleeping in a pile of pillows and stuffed toys, and blankets that have so many different textures and qualities that it makes you fall asleep. Sixteen can be holding the hands of the people you love and telling them exactly that.

"–But when you are under a limelight, you feel like every part of you is in view. I bathe in the glory of being exposed but I am ashamed of the fact that I am seen. Is there a part of me, Isidore, that is unappealing? Is there an area of flaw? Is there something that I must fix at this instant? And Isidore would tell me, 'You are human, the god of humanity. There is no fault in your cracks or flaw in your blemishes.' And Isidore would love me, because Isidore is love."

– Rarity, Clover

"Thirty–"

"No."

"Thirty-five."

"Higher."

"Alright. Thirty-six."

"The deal's off."

Kamden grunts, slumping against the back of his chair as he tries to find a new deal that was beneficial to the both of them. Sixteen was a fucking headache, he thinks, but Yujin alone was a goddamn migraine .

"I don't know what kind of sick idea you have about me, but I have no intention of ripping you off." Kamdem reasons out, leaning forward as he explains what he had been explaining to the younger boy for the past thirty minutes. Yujin was a talented yet stubborn guy, very different from his innocent face. It was a good personality to have in the industry, it kept you afloat and it kept Yujin sane. But it made things hard for Kamden.

"Listen, old man–"

"Don't start."

"Sir," Yujin says firmly, making Kamden sigh as he is forced to listen to the same words Yujin had been saying since he had entered. "This is my piece. I'm not representing this company, the interview is just going to be uploaded under it." He reminds him, "Lee Jeonghyeon chose me specifically, as his manager had clearly stated. He wants me to write it, any creative decision will be decided by him. All I ask is that you give me the pay I deserve since I'm the one leading this."

Kamden takes a deep breath, praying to god that his patience could somehow stretch far longer than he could ever think before he explains it to Yujin again. "Yujin, I'm more than happy to accommodate you and your needs, and I do respect your work. But, let's be honest, sixty-forty? Really?"

"Yes."

"No." Kamden raises a hand before Yujin could speak up, "Let me explain. I respect your work; I respect you. I wouldn't have scouted you and offered you a contract if I didn't, I wouldn't have given you a position in my company if I didn't–I would have cut you off the moment I'd heard you accepted that piece with Lee Jeonghyeon without speaking with me first." Kamden said, stern this time. It made Yujin fall back for a second because of his tone, it made him feel small in comparison to him. But knowing Kamden, he was kind. "Nonetheless, I'm proud that you have landed a job with him. But you can't possibly fund an entire piece with him, can you?"

Yujin slowly nods.

"Exactly. You know how hard it is to work with big artists, especially when you're working on a big piece with them. Who's going to find the photographer? The set? Who's going to publish whose name under what?" Kamden states, "I'm not asking you to give all the credit to the company. I'm asking you to negotiate a reasonable deal where you'll benefit as an individual without taking advantage of the stakeholders." 

A number comes to mind, but then there's the other thought that comes up: is it enough? Growing up an orphan and living with two other people came with difficulties, there was never a time where a certain amount would be enough, it was always just right or just a little bit more and it would be alright. When it came to food, for example, he would leave the dinner table with a half-full stomach. For money there just wasn't enough to send three boys to study, that was why Gunwook was so studious, because he knew that he was the only one who could. Their clothes came from one cabinet, shared and passed around between the three of them.

Frugality and selfishness were two different things, but it both felt criminal for Yujin. It felt like he was hurting someone in the process of choosing one or the other, like how keeping food for himself to eat would make him feel guilty for not sharing it. It was easy to decide which option would save him and sacrifice the other person, but what made things hard was the fact that Yujin could picture himself in their places, taking after scraps that he had left behind–even worse, he could see his brothers being the ones having to be in that position.

As Yujin contemplates his decision over in his head, with a frustrated expression playing on his face, Kamden knows his words have reached him and he sighs. He leans back, scratching on his nape as his eyes land on the article opened to his left. That was another problem. "And besides, you don't really have a good rep nowadays. Let me protect you, at least."

Sixteen was young but it was bold, and it came with problems that were often dealt with discretion but always sprouted in the eyes of the public. Young artists were always criticized the worst, because they were expected to work the same way as their peers who were twice their age, to be mature and experienced even when you haven't lived half of your life yet. Kamden's seen it happen; teenagers dropping like dead flies because the expectations were getting too much. Because while the industry encourages younger artists to start performing and putting them out there, they are also berated for being young.

What's worse is when there's young writers like Yujin, newly introduced and freshly popularized, bound to make mistakes, who were go-getters and dead-set on their aspirations. People's excitement gets mixed in with the vague sense of maliciousness, that even though they may be waiting for the next big thing, they're also waiting for the fall. Switching sides is easy when you're a by-stander, when you don't know who you're hurting or simply don't care who gets hit.

The worst thing that had happened was a kid’s entire family record had been exposed, leaked to the public just to prevent a certain article from being published, and that was certainly a case that Kamden had the absolute misfortune of dealing with. Current society loves to play the hero when in reality they’re just being a bunch of nosy pricks playing detective. Even now, as Kamden’s sitting face-to-face with another kid walking the tightrope, he’s watching people assume the worst about his background, his character, his parents, all he can really do is pray that Han Yujin doesn’t grow too greedy, because the masses don’t like seeing hungry children.

“Alright.” Yujin finally says after a long period of silence, the bruise forming on his bottom lip dries up. If he swallowed he could taste the iron on his tongue, and he thinks it's the one that’s keeping him determined. He raises his hand in front of Kamden, eyes more fierce than before, like a cub-turned-tiger. “Forty and I get all the credits. Photoshoot, hardcopy, printing goes to you. But make sure that it has my name on it, and make sure I can see it.”

Kamden stares at him. Face blank as his eyes shift from the boy in front of him to the rough, clearly scraped hand in front of him. A small part of him wants to test Yujin, see if he can really put up a fight, if he can taste the iron. But the other part of him already knows the answer to that question.

“Deal.”

"You are a storm, you change everything in your path;

I am at the eye and I am at the tail.

I am at your peace and I am at your presence."

– All The Things You Did That Broke Me, Clover.

The first time Yujin heard about the writing industry's household name, Lee Jeonghyeon, was when he was eight years old and had just come home from school, quiet as a mouse with neither two giants in sight. Just Gunwook's school supplies spread around the table, with his notebooks open for the world to see the words written on it.

It was safe to say that Gunwook, on the rare occasion that Yujin finds him in that wasn't cooking dinner or messing with Gyuvin or walking him to school or teaching him his assignments, wasn't studying. Because as much as his notebooks and textbooks were opened on random pages would tell him that he was, the words written on the upper right corner of his notebook said otherwise: it was a fucking pick up line. A sneaky one, at that. Written with a colored pen Yujin had seen around the house before, with a handwriting that Yujin was pretty sure had written his late coming excuse letters.

On page 143, it said: Do you sleep so much because I'm such a dream? :)

And right below it, with Gunwook's classic gel-tip pen, it said: Stop writing on my notes while I'm gone, Gyuvin. And don't use Clover's quotes when you're flirting with me, you're too dorky to act romantic…

A frown was drawn right below it.

Stop sulking. Yujin can almost hear Gunwook's voice from just reading it.

Would you like a different quote? :) The conversation ends there, from what Yujin can tell. But when his eyes scan the entire page for what comes next, he finds a doodle of a thinly-built dog he assumes to be Eumppappa and the words flip to page 520!!! written right below its feet.

And Yujin, at least the small part of himself that absolutely hates public displays of affection and flirting at all, especially when it's between those two, finds himself invested. 

Growing up with Kim Gyuvin and Park Gunwook was an entirely different experience from what the usual step-by-step process was, and being raised by them was a completely different thing alone. He knew how they slept and what their favorite food was, what bullshit they mutter in their sleep and what color their favorite underwear were, small things that you pick up from big people; but perceptive Gyuvin and critically articulate Gunwook raised a boy that knew what was going on even if you gave him damn-near crumbs of information. He grew up raised by two very-loving people who, as much as they tried to hide it, loved each other. A concept that not everyone understood. Yujin saw Gyuvin and Gunwook as brothers, and they saw him likewise; but to each other, simple elbow touches or waist grabs and acts of service that consisted more than checking up on each other and tucking each other to bed was something more intimate. There was a sense of longing that was more intimate than familial with the two of them. Yujin learned what to do and what not to do from just watching them, like not leaving the gas range on, or putting leftovers into plastic containers, or using corny pickup lines for people that seemed to hate them but secretly loved them. 

Let the storm sleep and the world will wait for it to awaken. Sleep, my dear. I'll be waiting.

And sure, maybe it was a terrible combination of Kim Gyuvin and Clover's works, but when you're 8 and you've just discovered something your parents are interested in, it sort of became an important part of himself too. Because if Clover was a medium for expressing how in love they were, then why would Yujin be mad at something so beautiful?

Come to bed, it says with nothing following after, and the conversation next would be something Yujin only assumes to be words exchanged through slurred words and sleepy mumbles and yawns, and not through the pages of Gunwook's science textbook.

Love was something different. It was something so magical and out of touch, it was something that only few people could really have, it was something that every author of that time said to be so addicting and fantastical. And at first Yujin didn't get it. No matter how many novels and stories he would read or be told about he couldn't seem to be able to picture it in real time, what love was like in real life. Poets would write about sacrifice and heartbreak, about how men would fall to their knees at the sight of women and how women would swoon at the actions of men. A princess would always have her knight in shining armor. A lady would have her lad. A husband needs a wife. A girl is for a boy. If love was something natural then why did it feel so exclusive? If love was something normal then why did Gunwook and Gyuvin feel the need to hide theirs?

That was until Yujin read Clover's work. Love wasn't shameful, and it wasn't something to be shamed about. It wasn't something that deserved snide remarks or glances, it wasn't something that was to be condemned for. They were in the modern time living in an olden mindset, where crucifixion and being stoned seemed to be the solution for the most minor of details that didn't really matter but people gave a fuck about. Clover wrote about it like it was breathing fresh air, so why would they have to hold their breaths just not to lose it? Everyone concluded that whoever Clover's beloved was must be the luckiest girl in the world. A whole series, a whole goddamn album, an entire fucking legacy was written for her. Lee Jeonghyeon had the woman of a lifetime, the articles said, She must be the one in a million for him to be so in love with her like that. Everyone wanted to be his mystery girl. Everyone wanted to know who exactly he was writing about. 

And then a year later, Han Yujin would be writing for the daily Times.

And today, after two weeks of preparing for his first meeting with Lee Jeonghyeon plus one week of crying about it, Han Yujin's going to actually meet him. Like, legitimately shake the hand of the man who wrote his autograph on Yujin's copy of Whistleblower, look the man in the eyes after watching every recorded television interview, talk to the guy that wrote whatever bullshit Gyuvin had told Gunwook just to spite or soften him.

A tap on the table is what breaks him out of his inner thoughts, and then suddenly Yujin's back at the diner with his hands fiddling at the base of the large milkshake cup, drinking an unhealthy amount of chocolate and whipped cream because Coffee isn't good for kids! as Gunwook would tell him. He snaps out of his mind and his eyes look up to find a tall man who had a smile on his face, eyes sharp and hair falling towards his eyes. One hand waving at him as he was slightly leaning forward. A face that Yujin had seen from black and white pictures at the back of books, on newspapers, or lyrics that were usually above a name he's been dreading and looking forward to meeting.

"Hello there. Han Yujin, right?" He says, in a voice so clear that Yujin could finally hear it through the distorted television shows. Yujin nods, standing up and politely offering a hand and bowing as they shake hands. 

"That's me." 

"Great! I'm Lee Jeonghyeon." He says, smiling and nodding along before he motions them to sit down. The chocolate drink feels too childish all of a sudden for such a memorable moment, but then again, it was Lee Jeonghyeon himself who had asked for them to meet here, and it was Lee Jeonghyeon who was currently ordering a strawberry milkshake right in front of the sixteen year old. Jeonghyeon laughs, grimacing as he gives his order away to the waitress, "I'm not good with coffee." He says.

"Me too." Yujin says, trying to calm his nerves as he's pressing his thumbs onto the flat expanse of his notepad, nearly bending the layers of paper in half just to make sure he isn't stuttering. "My brothers tell me it's not good for kids."

Jeonghyeon smiles, "My partner tells me that, too." and that was the first mention of it, the mystery person. The girl Jeonghyeon had been courting over a thousand words written and published for the world to see. Yujin should've been keeping an ear out for it but he doesn't because his nerves were fucking killing him. The brain freeze was getting to him too but the aftershock was what woke him up. The words partner were ringing, and Yujin knew when to start listening. He can power through this fucking brain freeze if it's to listen to every bit of information that Lee Jeonghyeon would give him that could absolutely rock the world. And maybe because Jeonghyeon didn't put too much stress on it, as if it was just a casual conversation, as if it could be said out loud, "He's just as childish as me, but that's why I married him. He's adorable." Maybe that's why Yujin could hear the dots connecting in his mind, because Lee Jeonghyeon treated it as if it wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

"They don't know it yet, but maybe they do. Maybe I'm too inconspicuous about it but to hell with secrets and such. If I could yell to the world how much I love you, how much I yearn for you, how many nights are spent thinking about you you you you. The world wouldn't be ready to hear about it. So for now, I whisper it onto your skin and carve it onto mine."

– Like Lovers Do, Clover.

If there was a word to describe Lee Jeonghyeon, that would be aloof. He had an air of calmness and contentness that surrounded him that shouldn't make sense but he makes it work somehow. Maybe it was because Yujin was a kid, and maybe Lee Jeonghyeon knew how nerve-wracking this must be for him, that's why he initiated to meet up at a nearby diner; maybe it was because he was just as nervous as Yujin was that he wanted to be in a relaxing place that had good food and served great strawberry milkshake.

And Yujin can't help but wonder, was it the milkshake that was making him say all this?

"You…" Yujin says, slow and quiet as a mouse as he's pressing his pen against his notepad, as if he was a rusted robot that lacked the memory or the code to function, as if someone just threw cold water on him, "You have a husband?"

And when Lee Jeonghyeon pales, mouth agape as he pauses in his tracks, looking up at Yujin with eyes that were aged and knowing, Yujin knows that yeah, it's definitely the fucking milkshake.

"Did I say that out loud?"

"Yeah." Yujin admits, making Jeonghyeon purse his lips into a straight line as he nods. Yujin's seen this before, he's watched it happen a thousand times over whenever Gyuvin gets asked that question.

The first time Yujin picked up the look was when they were meeting up with a friend of theirs, Seok Matthew, who was one of the people that Gyuvin and Gunwook were really close with because they grew out of the same orphanage. They were sitting under a tree in the park, minding their own business when a certain couple walked past them. Yujin managed to sneak a glance, curious as to why his brothers stopped talking all of a sudden, and his eyes found the two couples looking down on them, literally and figuratively. Yujin turned his head to see what exactly was so disgusting that they had thrown that look in their direction, and all he saw were Gunwook and Gyuvin, holding hands. They let go of each other, quick as a bullet as they looked away from each other, almost ashamed at what they were doing. And back then Yujin didn't get it, he didn't understand why they had to do that when they always hold each other's hands around the house.

Gyuvin looked uncomfortable. Gunwook looked uneasy. And that was the exact look that Jeonghyeon had on right now: it was like he'd been caught red-handed. Matthew was the first to speak up back then, sighing as he bites into his sandwich, "If it's anything to you, I don't mind. Frankly, they should fuck off somewhere and mind their own goddamn business."  

Yujin coughs again, on purpose this time just to catch Jeonghyeon's attention, "But– I don't have a, y'know, issue with it. It's normal to me."

Jeonghyeon lowers his hand, eyebrows raised along with his shoulders, as if he was just a boy who had said something out of place, "Really?"

"Yeah. I kind of… know people who are like you."

"That's…" Jeonghyeon starts but trails off almost immediately. His hands find the base of the milkshake bottle, trying to wake himself up with the cold temperature of the glass. And Yujin can't help but think that there was something human about that small gesture, his shyness and nervousness; but there was also something familiar with Jeonghyeon. "That's good, then. I didn't know anyone who was like me back then." maybe he could see Gunwook through him because his eyes never faltered, always looking straight at him; or Gyuvin because he has a habit of moving around or fidgeting a lot.

They fall into silence just like that. The sound of the straw being sipped dry until the bottom of the milkshake bottle was clean from residue of chocolate. Yujin was the first to look away, coughing quietly from how sweet the chocolate syrup was. A few tissues are handed to him, and he takes it thankfully from Jeonghyeon's hands.

"Thanks."

"Listen, Yujin–" Jeonghyeon starts, relaxing his shoulders as he leaned forward, hands fiddling with one another before it's clasped in front of him, "I don't want to pressure you. You were probably shocked by my announcement that this'll be my last interview and all, but trust me—it's really not going to be that big of a deal."

Yujin stares at him blankly, the words No, it is, actually, written behind his eyes, "Of course. It'll be a piece of cake. Definitely not nerve-wracking. It's not like everyone's waiting for me to say the wrong thing about you."

"Yeah, well," Jeonghyeon chuckles, mixing the milkshake with his straw as he says it as if it's so simple, "I trust that you won't."

"What part about me makes you think I'm trustworthy, exactly? Why me?"

"Well, for one, I'm a good judge of character. I've read your piece and I can tell when someone is sincere with their work." Jeonghyeon says as if he were so sure of himself, drinking half of his strawberry milkshake before he continues, "And two– well, reason number two isn't mine to tell." Yujin falters and Jeonghyeon notices this, so he speaks up before the boy could get even more discouraged, "But I'm being honest to god when I tell you that I trust that you can handle my story well."

"That's…" Yujin tries to find the words, except there's none. What was he supposed to say to that? Thank you for assuming I'm a good person, or was it Sorry, but I can't guarantee that? So instead, he decides on the neutral, vague area for a response, "That's good. Great, even." He grimaces, "Totally not vague at all, but okay."

Jeonghyeon laughs dryly, "I promise to give you an entire essay on why I chose you by the end of this. Pinky-swear." He raises his pinky to show his dedication, to which Yujin hesitantly crosses his own with. 

"Neat. But I'm going to need a heads up first. I don't want to start writing without really having a grasp over what we're talking about."

"To be specific," Jeonghyeon raises a finger, Yujin takes out his notepad the second he does, "I want it to be about me–"

"Obviously."

"–And I want it to be about my sexuality." Jeonghyeon says, firm in his resolve, that it makes Yujin pause for a second before he's writing again. "Frankly, I don't care if I get hated on for being a gay man. I've already come up with this decision, so really, I'm not going to chicken out. And I hope that you don't, too." He almost sounds humorous like this, laughing at the possibility that the world might disown him because he's going to come out of the closet. He stands firm in his decision, and no matter how casual he makes this sound like, Yujin could tell it wasn't something decided at the last minute. Lee Jeonghyeon was aloof, but that didn't mean he was dumb. Han Yujin could see it in his face that he wasn't, that it probably took him days–maybe even years–to consider and debate with himself whether he wanted to or not. "This is going to be my last appearance anyway, so really, it's no harm done. I'm ready to come out. I'm ready to… tell the world that they've been falling in love with a gay man. So really, it doesn't matter to me what other people think. I'll retire, fuck off to somewhere. Probably the seaside or somewhere nice–"

"Is that part supposed to be part of the piece?"

Jeonghyeon grunts, "Up to you. I simply trust you to write what I want to say before I'm off the wall."

Yujin hums, "Quick question."

"Go for it."

"Are we going to… include your partner's name?"

Jeonghyeon takes a while to answer, staring at the silver band around his finger closely as if it would give him an answer. And maybe Yujin was a romantic, maybe Jeonghyeon's works had rubbed off on him the way he put meaning in everything so seemingly simple, but it almost seemed like a prayer. Jeonghyeon turned the ring a few angles before he began speaking again, "He's going to arrive next week, we could ask him then." Yujin nods, "For now, it's my story. Maybe later someone else will write theirs, and then more people will, too. I'll take the first step."

"'Why would you do that?' Clarity asked, 'Why would you… Why would you tell me you loved me?'

With calloused fingers and a sullen expression on her face, Vain wiped the beau's tear-stricken face and whispered, in a hushed tone that only Clarity could hear, in a tone only Clarity has heard, in a breath that was broken and short, she says: 'Because it's true. There is no law or person on this Earth that could forbid me from telling you that I love you, so bad that it pains me not to tell you.'"

–Love, Clarity Darling, Clover.

The city was awake when Han Yujin had ventured out onto the streets carrying all of his recorders and materials for their interview. It had been exactly four days since they had first met each other face to face and the arrangement is going to go like this: Yujin will be going to Jeonghyeon's house for the next four days to conduct probably the longest interview that both of them had participated in. 

Now, four days was a lot of time to think about what was going to happen. It was easy to create a thousand questions in one night but when you're an anxious guy like Yujin, you get to double that shit up and start going delusional just to answer it. There was the fear for his career, then there was the fear for Jeonghyeon's career, his image as the nation's heartthrob was literally at the palm of Yujin's hands, and whether he would be able to write it out properly or not could literally fuck both of them up.

Yujin knocks on the front door. He tries not to fidget in his place while he's waiting for it to open, tries to look formal and punctual and all things important before he's faced with Jeonghyeon again. He's a ball of nerves and he thinks it'll only take one strong breeze to have Yujin flying away back in the confines and safety of his home.

But Jeonghyeon answers the door before the wind could pick up, and he looks as relaxed as ever with a cup of tea in his hands. Yujin releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding, and he feels like he had just learned to walk when Jeonghyeon opens the door wide for him to come through. He ignores the concerned expression that Jeonghyeon was wearing on his face as he stared at the young boy who looked like he was about to bring a storm into his house, and he pulls his shit up to say, “Let's do this.”

“And while most people would prefer the four leaf clover, because it represents luck itself as it is a genetic mutation of the three leaf clover, I would always prefer the latter. The three leaf clover may not be rare, but it represents something we all need and want: happiness.”

–100 Science Facts, Clover.

When I was young, I didn't have a particular interest in school. I was good at it and always received good marks, yes, but being a genius was different from being smart. I wasn't participative nor too lazy, I just knew what I should be doing and followed what was the standard. I simply finished high school because I had nothing else to do and my parents were pushing me to pick a program that could possibly increase our current social standing. When asked what I wanted to do, I would tell them the same thing: what do you think would suit me? In hopes that I'd find the answer through them, that maybe one of their replies would be the correct one, or if I had lost time then I would simply choose the most popular answer.

I found myself debating whether I should take Education or Law, knowing well enough for myself that I didn't have the passion or skill for either of them. I was honestly lost and unsure of what to do with the rest of my life, satisfied with how I lived yet the feeling of discontent consumed my mind. I felt like I was simply living to survive the next day, but I always prayed that I wouldn't just so I wouldn't have to make another decision for myself.

That was when I was sixteen, washing dishes and cleaning tables at my local diner, desperate not to get myself kicked out of my home for being a burden to my family, paying my rent and cleaning up any loose threads from my past. I spent the entire year working at the diner, mostly because it gave me time to think, but it also gave me too much and too little time to actually be able to do it. It gave me a routine, a task, a goal every single day that actually helped pull me out of my stump.

One day, the manager would open up new channels on the radio just to distract himself in between orders, and sometimes it was a bit too loud so everyone else would hear about it. A new band that didn’t sound like one. Click. A melodrama about cheating husbands and tearful wives. Click. Terrible news about a new publishing house burning down in a recent fire. Click. Most of the time it was something tasteless and boring, always with the same voice and in the same tone that always put me and everyone else in the diner to sleep. 

I don't know when I started realizing that the manager had been switching to the same channel every day, and unlike the previous ones this one was good, this one didn’t urge the manager to change the channel five seconds into hearing the content, this one had me walking back in the kitchen to tell the cook to turn up the volume so I could hear it as well.

It was a radio channel called Balladina that featured writers who submitted their stories following a selected theme to be read on broadcast, anonymous or otherwise, it was up to the writer. It would select stories from writers all over the country and the voice actors would act out the events of the story, keeping the channel fresh and interesting every day.

I fell in love with the broadcast, but most of all I fell in love with the stories featured on it. It had horror, romance, drama, mystery, thriller– anything and everything simply because it relied on the writers’ personal style which made it so unique. It gave me a new thing to look forward to, something to distract myself with when I began thinking too much. It was the first time after a long while where I actually began having hobbies again, I actually began bringing a journal with me to work just to write my own stories. Things were looking a bit brighter for me back then.

When I was eighteen and finally in college taking up Education, still working at the same diner and still writing short stories in my journal, the hosts of Balladina announced that their broadcast was going to be canceled in two weeks. To be honest, I wanted to crack my head on the stove because of it.

I remember the cook, who was the manager’s son and my best friend at that time, Park Hanbin, commenting about it the day we both found out. He said, “Well, that sucks. Thought we had something fun, but I guess not anymore.”

I said, “I’m going to kill myself.”

“Well, that’s a bit…”

He told me I was being dramatic, but he also looked worried because I said it so seriously. To be honest, I was half-joking when I said that; the Balladina may have been just some simple radio broadcast to most people, but it was what got me living again. It was what helped me get into my newfound hobby of reading and writing short stories for no one but myself to read, and when I realized that the possibility of me burning out from my newly sparking desire for writing was quite high I knew I needed to do something about it.

When the Balladina hosts announced that they were going to select the best submissions for their last two weeks of broadcast that followed their selected theme, I knew that I needed to be a part of it. If I was going to go down, become an empty shell of myself once again, lose my desire for anything and everything, I might as well do it with the thing that I wanted the most. I needed my work to be included in the final broadcast, at least in that way I would have done something in my life that I was proud of.

Their last week of broadcast had arrived, and the hosts announced the theme on a Saturday broadcast: it was ‘First Love.’ It was a classic theme, it was easy and it was simple. Now, I may not have been much of an expert in love during this time, but love was something profound and just so imaginable that it didn’t require experience or such. I thought that if I wrote about a casual love story, preferably coming of age, about two young-uns who experience the magical intricacies of falling in love for the first time, it would be enough.

So I began writing the draft. For three days straight, in between classes, during breaks, in between intervals when there were no customers at the diner, right before I slept and the second I woke up, I was writing and rewriting again and again and again . My hands had ink all over them by the time I was finished, and at that time I was proud of my ink-stained fingers because it was a symbol of my undying desire. I finished what I considered my masterpiece on a Tuesday afternoon, and I had planned to send it in the mail that evening.

But before I did, I had Hanbin read it. I wanted him to tell me what he thought, criticize my work as much as he wanted; I needed an outsider’s perspective and Hanbin, the ever so objective, was just the right guy for this kind of thing. I was confident of my creation and damn sure that my work was going to get into the Balladina .

That afternoon, Hanbin smiled at me and said, “Yeah. It’s probably gonna get in. It’s good enough.”

I raised a brow at him, confused that he had actually complimented my work but also quite proud that I made him like it. Except there was a part in what he said that stuck out to me. “Really?” I asked. It’s good enough? I thought.

He nodded, giving me a thumbs up as he slid my draft back to me, “Yeah, hundred percent. Radio broadcasts like that love cliche stories.” Then he stood up from his stool to go back to working, leaving me dumbfounded and eager because that wasn't the response that satisfied me.

“What do you mean by that?” I prodded.

Hanbin scratched his head, not really knowing how to put it into words. But I looked at him dead seriously because I needed to know what he was implying, what he was thinking, what he knew. Hanbin can't avoid me forever, he knows there's no customers for me to serve and I have about three more hours before my shift is over, so he has no choice but to face me now. “I’m saying that it’s a good story that popular shows would love to get their hands on. Sure, it doesn’t really do anything different, but it is good!”

At that point, I didn’t know how to feel. My story was good, but it wasn't anything special. Was that it? I mean, I wanted to get my work on the Balladina, but it’s not like I just wanted it to be there. I wanted it to be good, more than good, but as I read my work again and again I began to realize what Hanbin meant by good enough. It was good enough to be on the Balladina, but it was also good enough to be on anywhere else. I still submitted my work that Tuesday evening anyway, but it didn’t make that heavy feeling pooling at the bottom of my stomach go away.

By the time Friday had rolled in, I was already watering the flames of my passion for writing down, I calculated the likelihood that my work would get chosen and prepared myself to get disappointed by the results. It wasn’t like I would get a cash prize for it anyway, and it wasn’t like they were going to praise me and my work for being the last story on the broadcast.

I remember walking into the diner that day, a feeling close to dread and mourning washing over me as I began my shift. In the background were the hosts yelling their classic introduction with a sad tune playing under their voices.

“—As we all know, all things must come to an end. Today marks the 654th day since our first broadcast, and three days from now, we will be coming to an official close. Isn’t that quite sad, Junghyun?”

“It really is, Keita. Although two years seem like a long time, it felt quite short for us. We’ve experienced ups and downs, telling stories to the people and helping authors get their recognition in the country, that it really did feel like a short time.”

The talk of sentimentality and closure felt so sickening to me, because now I was actually hearing them talk about the broadcast ending in real time. If someone had told me that the Balladina was ending two years ago, then maybe I would have been rotting in my bed, letting my flesh turn sour. A few days ago it didn’t feel quite real, but now as they were approaching their last days of broadcasting, that pool of regret was solidifying in my stomach. I remember Hanbin having to cheer me up because I was frowning so deeply that day.

“Last week, we received hundreds of submissions in the mail for today’s theme of: first love! Isn’t that cute, Junghyun?”

“Sure is, Keita! I remember my first love, as clear as day. I remember every single detail and intricacy.”

“I couldn’t say the same for myself, unfortunately.”

“How sad that must be for you… Good thing we have this wonderful story, written by LJH! About the intricacies of falling in love at such a young age!”

“That really is a good thing! Then, let’s begin the story–”

My story got chosen. It was being broadcasted to the nation. But I didn’t feel one bit satisfied as every line I wrote was read out for the world to hear.

"I sleep in trains, in buses, at the back of the car, most of the time in places I wish you were. You were a dream."

–1 70√3 £, Clover.

In the year I turned twenty, I moved from my hometown and settled myself in the capital. I had just graduated with my degree in Education and was going to start teaching a few months after I settled down. The past few years had been slow for me, painfully and absolutely dull, doing nothing yet everything to keep moving forward after my small spark with writing finally died down. I still write sometimes, just not often; but when I do, I feel like I’m always doing something wrong. In the past, I will admit that I was a good writer. In theory, I understood what I had to do, I followed a criteria and a standard that I knew would let my work be approved; but in practice I was simply technical. I was just good enough but that was it. I wasn’t amazing nor was I spectacular at it, I was just good enough to make the cut. I only ever called myself smart, after all, it’s not like I was a genius or anything, so I don't know why I was expecting more from myself.

I moved in with an old, childhood friend named Kim Taerae who I reached out to, and he let me live in the second room of his apartment. The day I moved in with him was pretty normal, it didn’t feel that special, but it was fun because that meant I got to hang out with Taerae again. He showed me around townsquare and taught me the buses I needed to get on to reach my destination, and after a long day of touring around, we finally went back to the apartment.

That night, on the balcony of Taerae’s apartment, we sat on the ground and sang songs together while he played his guitar to celebrate my arrival. I don’t remember when I began talking, or why for that matter, but for some strange reason I brought up writing again.

“You know, I want to write lyrics, too.” I said, looking at the city below us, enchanted by how bright it was even though it was already night. It seemed that the capital never slept, and everyone kept moving, and I’ve never felt so out of place because I feel like I’ve never even moved an inch. While the world had already moved on from the events that took place days– no, years ago, I was still standing in the same place I was before, refusing to let it move me. It was both commendable and pathetic.

“Yeah?” Taerae hummed, quieting down each strum of his acoustic guitar as he stared at me, lips pressed into a thin line as he waited for me to continue. “Why don’t you?”

I laughed as I thought about it, “I don’t think I could write anything special.”

He scowled at that, “Have you tried to?” I shook my head, and he laughed because he couldn't seem to understand me– no, because he could tell I couldn't seem to understand myself. “Then what’s your reference point for saying that?”

I laughed, silent for a few minutes because he was right. “I wrote a story once, for the Balladina. I don’t know if you know what that is, though.”

“Heard of it.”

“Well, it won. My story got chosen for their last broadcast.” I said, sorrow overriding my pride. “But I don’t think the story was all that good.”

Taerae hums, still listening despite not understanding where I was going with what I was saying. So instead, he sighs and tells me with a serious look on his face, “Then keep writing. It’s clear what you want, so why stop?”

“That's the problem,” I muttered, curling in on myself as I pressed a hand to the bars of the railing, looking out into the view as I spoke in whisper, “I don't know how to write. I don't know how to do it properly anymore. I thought I was doing something special when I wrote my piece for the Balladina, but it just felt so superficial and shallow.”

It didn't feel like me. It felt like I was just lying and making some stuff up, though I was passionate about writing that piece, it was simply that–I wrote the story simply to write, not because it was actually special to me. It felt distant, cold, unfamiliar, and alien to me because it didn't sound like I was the one who wrote it. It was simply words written on paper, not a pinch of my thoughts and feelings even made it onto a stroke of my letters.

Taerae offers a clear, obvious solution: “Then write.” he says, rolling his eyes with a smile on his face as if to make fun of me. “If you're not going to start writing how you feel, then who will? The only person who would be able to understand how you feel is yourself.”

The city life was fast; it was abrupt and it didn't give me time to dwell on Taerae’s words. I was always busy doing something, going somewhere, talking to someone, establishing my ground and getting used to the atmosphere that gave me less time to ponder about writing and more time actually moving forward in life. Before I knew it, it was already two months since I came and I had already begun teaching high schoolers how to solve math equations.

I remember coming home late one day, feeling half-dead, in need of a bath and perhaps some leftovers if we had any. When I arrived at our floor and as I was fishing for my keys, I realized I had not brought it with me. But the thing with Taerae is that he was a deep sleeper, not even the end of the world could wake him. I debated on yelling at the top of my lungs but I knew that yelling would only bring out complaints from our neighbors, who so desperately wanted to kick us out of the building. They found it peculiar that two men lived together, so I was commonly the recipient of bewildered stares and threatening glares.

After a few minutes, I gave up on trying to find a solution, my mind was too tired to think of any way to get into the unit without looking like I'm breaking into it. I slumped down against the door and crossed my legs together, holding my bags to my chest while resting my head on my knees, deciding to sleep outside until Taerae woke up to let me inside. Drifting in and out of sleep on the cold wooden floors outside our apartment unit.

I woke up falling backwards, shocking Taerae who had just opened the door. Perhaps it was because of how tired I was earlier that my uncomfortable sleep didn't feel all that uncomfortable; in fact it felt like I had rested a thousand times better than I ever had.

Taerae berated me for sleeping outside, “You buffoon, you're lucky I woke up early! Otherwise, the neighbors would be gossiping about some handsome weirdo sleeping outside my door.”

“A handsome weirdo.” I mocked before he rolled his eyes and belatedly dragged me inside the unit, pinching me because I had attempted to joke so early in the morning.

Taerae looks at me strangely, staring at the fabric wrapped around my neck knowingly while I stood up, “You bought a scarf?” He asked with a raised brow and a smirk. I had not even realized that there was a green knitted scarf wrapped around my neck, with no name of who owned it in sight. Perhaps this was why I was able to sleep so comfortably.

“No. Someone gave it to me while I was asleep.” I admitted, taking off the scarf then folding it neatly to leave it on my bed. “I'll find out who it is then I'll give it back.”

Taerae hummed in response, thinking up a different scenario, “Perhaps they fell for sleeping beauty right outside my door.” he teases.

“They should have kissed me awake, then.” I retort, making Taerae laugh even harder as he shakes his head.

Days pass without me knowing who it was that gave me that scarf, I simply accepted it because it seemed like a waste to have such a nice article of clothing at my disposal. So I put it inside my bedside drawer so that it wouldn't get dirty. The only time I actually needed to use a scarf was during the winter season, after all.

It was around the end of November when it first began snowing. I woke up an hour before my alarm even rang and found myself spending almost an hour staring outside my window, looking at the city which was covered in white snow. All year around, I thought that the city would always be different compared to the country, but it was during the cold winter that the city felt so familiar to me. I think that was the only time I actually felt at home.

I wore the green scarf that day, and as I was waiting for the bus to arrive I noticed a tall man with blond hair who wore a red and white striped scarf. Thinking it was rude to stare at a stranger, I decided to ignore him and went on with my day. We waited at the same stop, rode the same route, and stood parallel to each other, but he went off first.

I don't know why I took notice of him so much. It was indeed strange of me to do so but my eyes kept on searching for him since then. Perhaps because his skin and his hair was as white as snow, I kept on looking back and forth between the view outside and the man in front of me. Thinking it was strange to think about a stranger so deeply, I erased him from my thoughts and decided to ignore him for the rest of the day.

I think I purposefully tired myself out for the entire day just not to think about it–about him–but when I was walking my way back to the apartment I realized that there was someone else walking ahead of me. It was the same man with the white hair and striped scarf, walking inside my apartment building carrying a large cloaked canvas that was almost his size.

I approached him slowly, pretending not to notice him at first but from the way he was struggling to get his canvas in, I immediately closed the distance between us. I held the door open for him to easily carry it inside, and when I did he looked shocked to see me, perhaps a sense of deja vu washed over him when he saw me, but he nodded and still told me, “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

He nodded so I excused myself before going ahead. I thought that was the last time I was going to see him for the night, so I didn't put too much thought behind it. But once I had reached the top of the first flight of stairs I saw that the guy was only at the first few, struggling to carry his canvas with him. I once again spoke up.

“Would you like some help with that?” I offered, and he lifted his head to look at me. It took him a few seconds to answer, but when he did, I realized that I had been holding a breath.

“Yes, I would like that. Thank you.”

On our way to his unit we exchanged names–his name was Ricky, Shen Ricky–he was two years younger than me and worked as an artist downtown, and we were carrying his most expensive piece that was going to be sold at an auction in two weeks time.

Once I had helped him settle his painting down, I excused myself from his unit. “It was nice meeting you, Ricky!” I said, about to walk out before he called for me.

“Jeonghyeon?”

I paused, “Yes?” I turned to look at him who was standing a few meters from me, one foot out the door while he looked like I had forgotten something. He opened his mouth, but he closed it immediately afterward. I was confused but was also intrigued, so I prodded at him, “What is it?”

Ricky said, “If you… If you would like some tea, then feel free to come upstairs. I'm always home.”

I nodded, smiling as I told him, “I'll tell you if I have some time.” He nodded, a small smile on his face before I said, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Over the course of three weeks I found myself visiting Ricky’s unit frequently. We’d often talk about small things, for example his work and mine, where I used to live, why he chose to paint, and it will always be over a cup of tea while Ricky’s busy moving stuff around or painting his new piece. Tonight is no different, as I have just returned from my work and climbed the steps to Ricky’s floor with a box of donuts from the store downtown that he recommended.

I knocked on the door a few times, calling his name loud enough for him to hear but not too loud for the neighbors to call me something scandalous again. It doesn't take me a while to notice that they’ve been cooking something malicious about me for the second time this year. After my last scandal–sleeping in front of Taerae’s door–happened, I've been a lot careful since then.

After a while of no one answering, I conclude that Ricky must have slept early tonight, so I decide to turn back to the staircase to eat the doughnuts alone. Except when I hear that a ruckus had been going on inside his unit, I turn back immediately to find him opening the door, looking haggard and panicked.

“Are you… alright?”

“Yes, I’m–” He replies, rubbing the side of his eyes as he blinks himself to sense, eyes blurry and skin pale, making him look like he's just been kicked awake. His sweater was loose around his shoulders, so more of his pale skin was exposed, especially his collarbones. Only then did I realize how thin he was, more than I thought. His cardigan was sliding off his shoulders and his hair was everywhere. He looked adorable like this, I wouldn't tell him, “I fell asleep while I was painting, so I'm quite out of it.” Ricky explains.

I wave at him. It's okay, “I understand.” I smile as I approach him and hand him the box of donuts, “Here. I bought this because I thought we could share. It's the one you like.”

Ricky stared at the box, about to reach for it but then he stopped. He instead grabs my wrist and looks me dead in the eye, “We could still share it. You know?”

“Well, I wouldn't want to interrupt your sleep. It seems like you need it right now, so I–”

“You're not interrupting anything.” Ricky says, letting go of me to fix his cardigan on his shoulders, probably because of how pink he had turned from how cold it was. “In fact, I need company right now, to prevent me from falling asleep again.”

I asked him, “Would it be alright with you?”

He sighs, playfully smiling as he pulls me inside, as if I’ve just asked him a stupid question, “I’m already inviting you. Ofcourse it would be alright with me.”

Whenever I enter Ricky’s apartment unit I get to see what it was actually like to be a part of Ricky’s day; there was paint everywhere, on the floor, on the walls, there were even some on his face and fingers. There was a bucket of opaque, multicolored water under the half-painted canvas, a tall stool sitting right in front of it, and right beside it was another stool with a plate of half-eaten dinner on top of it. There was a blanket on the sofa with pillows thrown on top, probably where he slept. It was always fun to enter Ricky’s unit, because though I am not with him during the day I always get to see what he’s been busy with at night.

He curses, seeing the state of his apartment then quickly moving to make it look presentable. I take off my coat and my green scarf and hang it on the wall, right beside Ricky’s red and white striped one. He leads me to one stool, picking up the plate of food then laying it on the kitchen counter, he returns to me and pats on the stool, “You sit here.”

I sat, watching him fix his place in a hurry while I looked back at the painting in front of me with the steamy box of donuts on my lap, talking about my day until he returned to his stool in front of the canvas.

“–It must be difficult being a teacher.” He says.

“It is,” I reply honestly, “But I enjoy teaching, though it may not have been what I wanted originally, I enjoy it, nonetheless.”

He hums, bending down to reach for the palette full of paint and a brush from the bucket before sitting upright again, “Why? What did you want to be before?”

I open the box of donuts, grabbing one for myself and another for Ricky, “Nothing, really.” He laughs, nodding along before grabbing my offering for him. “Though, I did enjoy… writing, as a hobby.”

Ricky hums, swallowing his last bite of the donut as he looks at me. “Novels? Short stories? Things like that?”

“Well, anything really.” I say, grabbing another donut for him to take. “I don’t do that anymore, though. I lost my passion for that kind of thing.”

“That’s unfortunate.” Ricky says, folding the sleeves of his sweater to his elbows as he wiped his brush on the towel on his thigh before grabbing the donut in my hands, “Writing does suit you. You look like a writer.”

I laughed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you know what they say!”

“What do they say?”

“They say writers look romantic, even when they’re not writing.”

I didn’t understand what he meant by that, so I pretended to by stuffing my face with another donut. The night goes on like that, talking while eating, while Ricky was painting his piece. He tells me this one will be presented on Christmas Eve at his friends gallery, and he tells me that it would be fun if I was there with him.

I tell him, “I can go, it’s the holidays so I won’t be working.”

He smiles, “Good. Because my friends are quite worried that I may be a loner all this time.”

“I empathize with them.” I say, and Ricky looks at me as if I had accused him of murder. I laugh at the shocked face he makes so I knock my knees into his before shoving another donut to his mouth, “You stay in your house the whole day, and you only ever leave so early in the morning or so late in the night. I bet you wouldn’t have eaten hadn’t I woken you up.” He raises a brow, eyes narrowing as he looks at me, his lips pursed as if I was lying except we both knew I wasn’t. But I know that no matter how sharp he looks at me, he doesn’t mean any harm.

One night, while I was having a guitar session with Taerae on the balcony of our apartment, I told him about our very interesting neighbor upstairs. 

“Ricky?”

“Oh, you know him?”

“Yeah, he’s my friend. I bring him dinner sometimes because he often forgets.” Taerae says, strumming his guitar before he completely stops, as if he had just realized something. “You met him?”

I nod, grabbing the guitar from his hands to strum a different tune. “Yeah, I hang out with him sometimes.”

Taerae is silent for a while, silent as he leans against the bars of the railing thinking about something, “So you gave his scarf back to him?” Now it’s my turn to stop strumming his guitar. I blink once, processing what he had just told me. Then twice because I had just realized something.

The next day was Christmas Eve, which was the day I agreed to meet up with Ricky in front of his friend’s art gallery. Last night’s events struck something in me, which was why I couldn’t sleep the entire night, walking back and forth in my room with the damn green scarf in my hands. Which was also why I was practically jogging my way over to the art gallery, searching for a certain blond with a striped scarf.

“Jeonghyeon!”

I turn my head to see him already standing there, smiling from ear to ear as he laughs at my antics, his breath fogging up in front of him from how cold it was. I marched my way over to him, taking off the green scarf around my neck as I approached him.

Ricky giggles, eyes turning into crescents and teeth clattering against the cold, pointing at my head, “Your hair is full of snowflakes.” He laughs out. I take the green scarf off and wrap it around his neck, right over his striped one.

“It was you that night.” I breathe out, looking into his eyes as I rested my hands on the front of his scarf, watching his laughter fade away into shock. His cheeks turn pink from how close our faces were, but I don’t move an inch even if my own heart was beating so hard. “The one who gave me this scarf, it was you, wasn’t it?”

He smiles, slowly nodding as he breathes out, “It was.”

I smile, breathing slow, ragged breaths before I'm wrapping my arms around his neck, pressing my face against the scarves. I told him, “I've been looking for its owner everywhere. Who would have thought it'd be you?” I laugh, releasing him from my hug to look him in the eyes again.

Ricky looked surprised, eyes blown wide and lips slightly parted as he stared at me. “To be honest, I've been trying to get it back since I met you.” He scoffs, brushing off the snow that I got on his clothes.

I chuckled, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as we looked around the street, “Well, now that we're here, maybe you can tour me around the gallery?”

Ricky smiled at my excitement, walking forward towards one of the buildings, opening the double doors to reveal the lobby area. “How shameless. You are just like Hao–making me work on a holiday.” Ricky mutters, pinching my wrist tightly to take my arm off his shoulders. He instead takes my arm and wraps it around his, holding me in place as we walk forward, “Buy us dinner tonight, consider that your Christmas gift for me.”

Now it was my turn to pinch him. I poke on his sensitive side, making him yelp and giggle until he begs me to stop. “Wow! You didn't even buy me a present for Christmas. I'm sad.”

Ricky laughs, letting go of my arm to face me completely. I watched him take off the green scarf I returned to him, only for him to wrap it around my neck instead. I stilled, unable to move an inch from how close he was to me, trying to prevent a blush from creeping up my face.

“Consider this my Christmas gift.” He whispers, a hushed conversation that only we could hear going on. While everyone else was busy looking at the art, I was busy looking at him. Like a moth to a flame, I knew that if I came too close I would burn. But you don't know how entranced I was with him, you don't know how warm it felt to be around him, you don't know that I burn whenever he touches me, and how easy it was to let him do that to me.

I was in love with Shen Ricky.

"Your influence over me is unmatched. They don't even know your voice but they hear you through me."

–Sleep With Me, Mike Hawk, Clover.

On my twenty-first birthday, Park Hanbin drove over to the city to celebrate with us in Taerae’s apartment. We did the same routine as we always did, except now the balcony was a bit more cramped because there were three men in it, singing songs with Taerae’s acoustic guitar while we drank beer and ate dinner on the floor.

That night, I pulled out my journal, and I had thrown it over to Hanbin for him to read. He looked confused and light-headed, but at the same time just as sane and surprised as Taerae was.

“I started to write again.” I confessed, “More often. Too often nowadays.” I said, breathing out a sigh as I leaned my head against the bars, looking up at the night sky that looked like it was going to fall on me.

I began writing a few weeks after I realized how deeply I felt for our dear neighbor. I didn't know how to express my feelings aloud, I didn't know what to do with it because it was stuck in my head–the words I needed and wanted to say couldn't get out–and if I didn't do anything about it then I believed that it was going to burst out in a mess if colors.

My routine with Ricky never changed, I still visited him often and he had even invited me to a few gatherings with his friends. Even if my heart couldn't handle being so near him, I stood by him, I still held his hand, and I always offered him my arm and he would always take it. It was dangerous to fall in love with someone so lovable, because it made it easier to be with them.

Hanbin looked up, staring at me while he handed the journal to Taerae, who so eagerly wanted to see what I wrote that would make Hanbin look so enamored.

“It's so… you, Jeonghyeon.”

I laughed, “I managed to find my style. It's unconventional, but it actually felt like I was writing my feelings down.” I smiled. I sniffed. I sobbed. And then all of a sudden I'm crying into Hanbin’s new shirt because the sudden outburst of emotions made the drunk me overwhelmed. “I'm happy with what I wrote, Hanbin.”

And he hushes me, telling me to never get drunk without either of them because it would be embarrassing for someone else to comfort me while I was drunk because I cried a lot.

That night, I confessed to them, albeit spontaneously and through choked sobs, “I like Ricky. He's our upstairs neighbor, and I… I love him.”

And they both could only stare, and for a second I was scared because I had forgotten how cruel people could be. For a second, I regretted confessing my love for a man. I had forgotten that even I could receive malicious glares, even I could be spoken about behind my back, that I could be accused of things I didn't do and be judged because of one miniscule detail. I never understood how I could let myself choke because of the fear that they could see me vulnerable and true and myself.

But when they're crushing me in a hug, rubbing my back and telling me that it was alright, I knew that they weren't like the people outside our unit. I knew that I was with the right people, and I found out that they were my people.

The next few days were mostly spent doing the same thing; I go to work in the morning and I come back home at night, but now it feels lighter, like a load has been taken off my shoulders. But there was still a hurdle that I needed to cross, another load to take off and another problem to solve.

Tonight I was drinking tea with Ricky again as we were sitting on the couch, perpendicular to one another. Ricky was reading a letter, his blanket draped over his legs, his reading glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose and I thought he looked adorable.

“You're staring.” He points out, not looking away from the letter.

“No, you're simply not looking at me.” I retort, and he laughs before he stands from his spot, carrying the letter and blanket with him before he plops down right next to me. He sat there, silent as he stared at me, challenging me with a smirk on his face before I gave in and looked away, feeling too warm to look at him.

“I thought you wanted me to look at you.” He giggled.

“Not when you look at me like that!” I laugh, trying to move a few inches from him.

“And how do I look at you?” I stop, looking him in the eyes as he looks at me pointedly, smirking because he knows he would always win with me. He didn't even know what effect he had on me, he didn't know I wanted to close the gap between us and tell him exactly how he looks at me.

I felt warm and drunk even if I had nothing but tea and scones that night, and I would still blame the tea because I had never felt any more proud, and perhaps that was why unlike the several other times we pushed and pulled, with me retreating at the end of it, this time I inched closer, daring him.

“You look like you want me to challenge you.” I say, one hand on the backrest of the couch, leaning forward. I knew I was thinning a fine line of our friendship, something we had built in the past year, something I treasured and something I would die by if I lost it. But there was always a tension around my relationship with Ricky, and it whispered to me every night while I was with him, telling me that Friends don't act the way you do, friends don't look at each other like you do.

Ricky doesn't back down, but he doesn't push as well, it looks like he's contemplating on whether or not he should be allowing this, like his psyche was telling him one thing but his lips were whispering another.

“Be honest with me,” Ricky mutters, dark eyes staring deep into mine, one hand creeping onto my knee as he holds me there. Once again, he has me in his hands, “How do you feel about this?”

He was pulling a confession out of me, I knew he was, because his eyes were begging me to tell the truth, to tell him something he wanted to hear, to tell him something that would change the trajectory of our relationship forever.

“You wouldn't want to know how I feel about you.”

“I would like to.”

“You wouldn't.”

“I would.” Ricky presses on my knee, and I hiss because I'm starting to sober up. I could blame it on the tea, I could blame it on Ricky, I could blame it on how I felt–but I knew for myself that there was nothing I could do to stop whatever it is that made me feel like this, because I would never stop Ricky.

“You'd hate me if I did.” I gulp, eyes flitting from Ricky’s eyes then to his lips then back to his eyes, which saw exactly where I was going.

“There's nothing you could do to me that would make me hate you.” He whispers, inching closer and closer, the hand on my knee is barely a feather.

I close the gap, pressing my lips to his, quick and easy and fleeting.

“How about now?” I breathe, feeling his heavy breath on my lips as our noses brush against each other, “Are you disgusted with me now?”

And then he hums, low in his throat as he strategically dances his hand from my knee to my thigh, while the other one combs through my hair, “You don't know I'm just as disgusting as you.”

“There's no shame in that.” I tell him, I tell myself the same thing deep inside. I promised that even if someone were to tell me otherwise that my heart would know the truth, that there was nothing to be ashamed of when I'm so in love with the person that made me find myself again.

Ricky nods, leaning in for another kiss, “Be shameless with me, then. I'll be your shameless secret, Jeonghyeon.”

Since then, we were secretly lovers. Secret to the world, at least, all for except his friends and mine, because ever since we introduced each other to our groups as lovers, it became easy to find the community we were a part of.

I told him, for the first time, “I love you.” But what I felt was exactly that and more than that. No matter how many times I whispered that against his lips, no matter how many dates we have, what I felt was more than those three words.

Then, one day he told me, “I'm going to leave soon. A few clients overseas commissioned me to paint for them.” And I felt my heart drop. I was going to be apart from him when I hadn't even spent enough time with him. He looked just as nervous, but his face was devoid of ay emotion as if he was preparing himself to harden his heart. Ricky laughs, trying to lighten the mood, as he held my head in his hands, “It's not like I'll be gone forever, after all! It's only… a few years, or so.”

I was frantic. I was in love and I was scared that I might lose that love. I knew that my love for Ricky could overcome the time and distance between us but I was afraid that I’d forget how to love, just like how I had forgotten how to write. During the last few weeks before Ricky’s trip, I spent as much time with Ricky as possible, helping him pack his luggage and materials even though it pained me, taking him out to dinner and going on walks with him. Right after work I would go straight to his place, and sometimes I would sleep at his apartment if I got too tired to go back to my unit.

“Do you want me to go?” Ricky asked, the night before his departure, intertwining our hands together as we drifted off to sleep.

“No.” I love him so much that I would beg him not to leave, “But you have to.” But I loved him more than that, stronger than that, that I wouldn't dare go between him and his passion. That I would wait for him to come back to me, even if it took him months or years to fight his way back to me, I would wait. That I would trust him to another place far from me to remember me.

When Ricky left the next day, I went back to my and Taerae’s unit feeling empty yet hungry at the same time. Taerae was drinking tea on the couch, probably Ricky’s because he entrusted his collection to Taerae, a gift to a dear old friend. It felt like something was waiting for me from the smile Taerae was wearing, and for a second my heart skipped a beat.

Did Ricky stay?

I ran to my room, a mix of joy and yearning filling my heart, only to be met with dissapointment because there was no one there to surprise me. There was only a medium sized package waiting for me on my bed, it had a note folded on top of it, and inside it read: For while I'm gone, don't forget about me.

The package was a painting, a splash of all of the different colors but the most prominent were red, white, and green. It was Christmas time, and the snow was everywhere on the painting. There were two boys standing side by side, one wearing a striped scarf while the other wore a green one. This was Ricky’s proof, his confession that he loves me just as much as he loved his work, that he can juggle striving for his passion while loving me along with it. That he doesn't need to let go of one or the other just to accommodate one because he would always be able to do both.

I broke into tears when I flipped the painting, when I saw that the date noted that it was finished on my twenty-first birthday, with Ricky’s name and signature, as well as the title ‘What Love Is For Me.’

It was then that I began writing again, starting from the words I had written in my journal until I finished the entire story. I was pouring my heart and soul into my work until I was left with pages upon pages of words I wanted to say, until my fingers cramped up from typing out my personal but soon to be very public love letter. Writing was my way of preserving memories, thoughts, feelings; it was my way of expressing what I wanted to say to someone who was not there.

I published my first book, Whistleblower, a book about a man yearning for his lover who was far from his grasp, a month after I turned twenty-two and seven months after Ricky departed, under my pen name Clover. It was a hit and it was the start of my career. If you read between the lines, it would seem that I meant something more because it was exactly that–Whistleblower was a love letter to Ricky, and the only way I knew how to say my complicated emotions aloud–and people would not know who it was about, but they would always know that I am in love.

"It pains me that I have to share you, my love. You're reading this a thousand miles away from me, the amount of people between us is intolerable."

–Stay Awake, Venus, Clover.

“What is it like to be one of the most renowned writers of the nation, Lee Jeonghyeon?”

“It is overwhelming, but I enjoy writing, so I'm glad that people are able to recognize my passion for it.”

“What are your plans for the future? Are you going to announce any other books soon?”

“I'm actually going to be working with stageplay adaptations and song writers soon. I want to work with different people in the industry.”

“Who is the mystery girl? Are you going to introduce her to the public soon? Everyone is curious about who your love letters are about.”

“Well, that's a secret.”

It had been five years since Ricky had left, but the number of letters between us did not dwindle as time went on. I once sent him a copy of Whistleblower and a letter a month after I published it, and he sent letters telling me how proud he was and how he was preparing something for me. After two whole months I had received a painting of the canals in Venice, where Ricky was currently at. Two figures were riding the boat, which I had assumed were the two of us. It was titled, ‘I Miss You.’

That was how our relationship was, we mixed our love for work and our love for each other and it worked out. Though I miss him dearly, I knew that good things come to those who wait.

Five years of waiting had me smiling from ear to ear as I stood in the airport’s arrival area, waiting for a certain man who was going to return to my arms that day. When I caught sight of him I was astonished, as if I had fallen in love all over again. I was breath taken when Ricky stood amongst the crowd, looking around as he tried to search for me, when I was just a few meters away from him.

Just like in the letters and the pictures he had sent, he had changed his look and dyed his hair red, a color that he wanted to try since he was young. He was taller now, and his hair was longer, face sharper and body firmer. He had changed between the years I hadn't seen him, and as have I.

He may look like he was ready for a fight with his fierce look, but when his eyes found me and his expression softened significantly, I knew that he was still the man I fell in love with all those years ago, and he is still the man I will keep falling for every day in my life.

His smile blew so wide that I could hear him even though the crowd was too loud and busy between us, like my ears were trained to listen to the sound of his joy, I automatically felt the warmth bloom from within me. Ricky began jogging, carrying his luggage in one hand before he completely left it to run towards me. He jumps when we are close enough and I catch him to close the distance, because I promised that I would. Because that was love for me: love was patient and it is unassuming and it is proud, though I did not reveal who he was to the public they did not need to know.

I take a few weeks off of work to spend time with Ricky doing anything and everything. Like eating outside, sleeping in, getting drunk, doing some things that should be kept in the drafts, cleaning up, buying a house, settling down, and most importantly, getting married.

The night I planned to propose to Ricky, he was nowhere to be found. I thought that I had scared him away with the thought of marriage, that I had made a mistake and I had assumed the pace of our relationship. I was scared of the possibility of losing someone who had become such an important part of my life, who had inspired me to move forward and do what I love and cherish it. So I went looking for him in the middle of the night.

I looked everywhere for him, the donut shop, Hao’s gallery, his studio, the restaurant, the apartment– everywhere. I couldn't find him but I knew that he was just somewhere.

And just when I was about to start yelling his name the firelights in front of the apartment building came on, illuminating the dark streets, redirecting my focus to the person who stood at the front of the crowd made up of our friends.

It was Ricky, holding a large bouquet of clovers and roses to his chest as he grinned at me cheekily. I was stunned, mostly because of how large scale the surprise was, because it was bright and it was proud, unafraid of who could see me approaching the love of my life before pulling his face toward me, kissing him straight on the lips.

Our friends gathered around us, cheering so loud as confetti and streamers began popping around us. I laughed as all of this was happening, holding Ricky by the waist as he giggled trying to swat away the hands that were messing with his hair.

I thought this was the perfect opportunity, so before I had lost the chance I had kneeled down in front of him, pulled out the box in my pocket and asked him the words I had been dying to tell him.

“Will you do me the honor of being your husband?” I say, smile not leaving my lips, even if Ricky’s shell shocked, unable to say a single thing.

He bends down, and I thought he was going to reject me, and I was going to accept it because what he wanted was what mattered to me the most. But then Ricky pulls out a box from his pocket, laughing until tears bloom in the corner of his eyes. 

“I was going to ask you to make me the happiest husband.” He smiles, pulling out the ring in his box to slide it onto my ring finger, and I do the same with the ring in my box, carefully sliding it onto his.

And though we may not be married by church or state, I always believed that the amount of books I had written for him were enough proof of the love we shared. It didn't matter to me if there was no document that said Shen Ricky was mine, because I knew in my heart and from the words he told me every day that he was.

"You might be able to see it,

My heart that longs for you,

Filled with words and expressions that were unfinished.

Can't you just focus on me?

My vision is fixed on you anytime,

Looking back at it, I revolve around you.

Don't put me away just like a coin in your pocket that you forgot about."

– War-r-r, Lee Jeonghyeon.

“I think you should be more careful.” He tells me, and I do hear him out that night.

“What is this for?” I ask, honestly feeling a bit light from how nice my sleep had been hours before, which I would give credit to the newly hung painting from the States titled ‘One More Year’ by none other than Ricky. He seemed to have been enjoying it there recently, meeting new people and going to extravagant places, and he plans to buy a place there next month for our occasional vacations.

Yunseo throws a crumpled newspaper towards me, the daily Times published only a day ago. Now, if there was anything I learned from these pieces of paper, it was that the front page almost always had the best stories, whether it was true or not, whether it was blown out of proportion or not, it was a bad type of good that always had me raising a brow from how utterly incredible yet believable it was. Now, Yunseo, who was always cautious and careful and meticulous–which was a few ways to say a bundle of nerves–reacting this way meant only one thing.

“Well, they’re getting quite curious about who your lover is, for one.”

I blink at him, words dying on my tongue, so I instead open the darkened sheets harsher than he threw them at me and read: ‘A Very Loving Husband, Indeed!’. And right below the title was a pixelated image of me being hugged by two women (who I assume to be my two dear friends wearing their on-set clothes for the new screenplay adaptation of my work) taken rather scandalously as if they were kissing me. And it doesn’t take a few minutes of skimming through the entire front page to read that Lee Jeonghyeon must be able to write about love so eloquently as he does not lack experience or women. It truly baffles me how creative the newspaper is sometimes; it seems like you can mix in a few lies with a group of truths and people wouldn’t even tell the difference.

It baffles even Yunseo, who can’t even hide the cackle slipping from his mouth. “And they’re implying that you’re having a threesome, Jeonghyeon; a gay man and two lesbian girlfriends are having a threesome .”

“That’s very creative of them.” Is all I was able to say, rubbing my knuckles onto the sides of my head, already imagining the string of creative curses Julie would be sending my way once she hears of this. She was quite chipper about these kinds of things ever since she found out I was just like her–well, not quite like her–and she always made sure to quote a new scandal of mine every time we met. “Is this the fourth time this week?”

“It’s the fifth, and it’s only Tuesday.” Yunseo looks disheveled, plopping down on the seat in front of me so lifelessly that I would have forgotten he was breathing a few seconds ago. “I beg you to never set foot outside this house until they’ve calmed down.”

I nod, laughing at his distress but most of all because of his apparent disinterest with the current issue that is the content of the rumors. All of it were untrue, of course, and it’s not like Yunseo was completely unaware of my situation; if anything, he probably knows the most about it, being the person who informs me that Ricky had called or that Ricky had sent something from god knows where.

“You wouldn’t have to worry.” I smile, staring off to the far wall, right at the empty space in the far right side of the room, where a few nails had already been hammered into the wall, waiting for another painting to hang from it. “I’m not really interested in telling them about that yet.”

Perhaps it was a good idea to put off buying a television, because then I wouldn’t have to spend so much time watching things that weren’t very entertaining. I guess watching my name get dragged through the mud wasn’t very satisfying, albeit it was my name that was being smothered with useless crap. They act like I killed someone yet they come to my book signing the next week; they call me a manwhore today then praise me for being such a romantic tomorrow.

It wasn’t at all helpful, because then it led to conversation like this:

“Maybe I should have stopped you from buying a television, too, because it really bothers me why my name is broadcasted way out there.”

“Because you’re quite loved out here, Jeonghyeon.” Ricky says, cheeky and sarcastic as he clicks his tongue against his cheek. He couldn’t even hide his annoyance across the damn world, which must’ve been why I had been getting chills up my spine since earlier this morning. “You know what I would have done if I had paparazzi tailing me?”

“Nothing good.” I nod.

“Yes! Shamelessness should have its consequences!” He nearly yells, probably pointing at the television on his end, telling me every single detail and word that the very eager hosts were telling him about. On one hand, he finds it funny, hilarious even; but on the other he’s secretly yet clearly on edge, clicking and teetering at every word and probably chewing the corner of his lips again.

I can’t help but sigh, leaning against the wall as I press my ear closer to the bell of the telephone, staring off at one of the paintings of Hong Kong. It has me twisting the golden band on my finger with a certain anxiousness. When Ricky finally releases the steam he had been releasing, the first thing I tell him is, “They’re quite off the mark.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Kind of.”

“That doesn’t make me any less jealous, though.”

“I know.” I admit, twirling the wires of the telephone around my fingers. “They’ll always get the wrong person. And I’ll always have the right one, and they’ll never know. Unless… you want them to know.”

Ricky takes a few seconds to answer, hesitating on his words before he answers with slow, raggedy breaths, “Neither of us are quite ready for that, are we?”

“Not really.” I say, chuckling deprecatingly, at a loss for words but I still tread on, sliding down the wall as I press my ears further in, desperate to hear him more. “I don’t know how many more people will be talking about me, and I don’t know what for, but I promised you that I will always love you, didn’t I?”

Ricky giggles, melting me from inside out, the sounds making my ears feel tingly even if it were from miles away, “You did. And you never once made me feel otherwise.” He sighs, probably rubbing his eyes by now, blinking himself awake for our conversation. “I trust you more than I believe those filthy articles.”

“So you do believe those articles?”

If Ricky were here, he would have smacked my arm by now and pulled me by the cheeks. He probably would have kissed me while he was at it, too. “You’re good at picking words, aren't you?”

“I would hope so.”

And life was good for a while, so much better than the last month had treated me that I was actually able to walk outside and do my normal routines without catching a few people following me. Perhaps Yunseo had finally settled the issue with the press, which would explain why he wasn't at home encouraging me to continue writing the next novel.

Being outside was a breather after being stuck indoors, it felt rejuvenating, honestly. I remember visiting Taerae’s salon that day, not for a haircut but just to show him that I was still alive and well; Hanbin was too busy manning the kitchen to see me personally, but he made sure my plate was enough of a greeting. It almost even made me forget about all the issues that had been forsaking me. I had even landed myself an interview just as I was walking back home, bumping into a familiar name and talking with a familiar voice. I told Yunseo about it the moment I had gotten a hold of him.

“Could you believe it? It's almost like it's fate!” I told him ecstatically, smiling from ear to ear as I reiterated the words Keita had told me earlier in the afternoon. “Who would have thought that I would be on his show, twice in a lifetime, without him knowing?”

Yunseo tapped on the table, equally happy and relaxed, “I still urge you to be careful, though.” He reminded me, and maybe it was because I thought I had left the danger zone that I disregarded it. Maybe I was too confident that I didn't think too much of his warning. And maybe it really was my fault.

The day of the interview came swiftly, my excitement getting the best of me and my eagerness clear in my voice that the entire recording had gone smoothly. I enjoyed my time with Keita, playing games and simply being introduced to a bunch of people in his crew, that it simply didn't make sense for me to leave so early.

“I would have thought you purposefully crossed paths with me that day, Jeonghyeon, with how happy you are right now.” Keita laughed, drinking down his can of beer as he took his time playing his next move, jolly as he placed down the rook right across my queen. “Your turn.”

I snicker, sipping quietly before making my move with little care but with clear pressure. “Oh, that wasn't on purpose, though. But our first meeting was.”

Keita looks surprised, probably more because of my confession but also because I had managed to turn the game to my side. This was fun, was all I thought.

“Oh?”

“I was on the last broadcast for the Balladina.” I admitted, leaning back and letting my eyes fall in the shocked expression on Keita’s face. Appearing on the Balladina wasn't a bad memory for me anymore, it was embarrassing but it didn't haunt me as much as it did.

“You're the one that wrote about first love.” He mumbles, a hand covering his face as he huffs out a quiet laugh, disbelief overturning his meek expression. “That’s not something you hear about everyday.”

“It's not something I'm proud of.” I confess, grimacing as I shake the nerves off to focus on the game after Keita made his move. “You're really good at this.”

He hums, “Hosting shows or playing chess?”

“Both. But I can see that you're clearly enjoying one more than the other.” Keita looks up, brows furrowed and eyes hyper focused on winning the game.

“Well, I'm better at hosting shows and asking questions.” He relaxes his face, moving his knight forward as he doesn't have much of an advantage with any other move. I smile, drinking down the last of my beer before I lean forward happily. For a second there, I could almost see his eyes glinting a certain gold as he glanced at my hand. “Like, for example: who is Lee Jeonghyeon's lover?”

I cackle, feeling lightheaded and warm, “You already asked me that question.”

Keita smiles, “No. I asked who was Clover’s lover, not Lee Jeonghyeon’s.”

“That's not any different from your previous question.”

“Oh, but it is, because I'm not asking you on camera, and I'm not asking for other people.” I still, turning sober over a second as I stare at him pointedly, unsure of what he wanted to say and even more unsure of what to do. “If the question is too difficult, I can always ask another one.”

I looked at him carefully, switching from him to the board to the ring on my finger, staring at the knight that had blocked my way and the tower that was two smart moves away from taking my king.

“I like you better as a host.” He laughs, and all I could do was smile bitterly, tasting the alcohol on my tongue. “I still won't tell you, though.”

“Aw shucks, too bad.”

“Yeah.” I laugh, dry and humorlessly as I pick up my next piece, frowning as I finish my turn. “You know, I always wondered why people keep asking about my lover when they should be talking about my work. I guess I understand how you felt when you never answered any questions about Junghyun when the Balladina ended.” I eye him carefully, watching as shock and dismay washes over his face as quick as a bullet. I smile. “Stalemate.”

“Huh.” Keita sounds, disbelief and surprise returning the color in his face. “Well, I'm not apologizing for my question.”

“I understand.” I nod, standing up from my seat to take leave, picking up my beer cans to throw away. 

“But that doesn't mean I don't respect you.” I turn to hear him out, only to be greeted with a hospitable smile playing on Keita’s lips. He stood up to open the door for me, holding my arm when he noticed I was getting a bit dizzy. “From one… to another, do tell me how I can help you.”

I blink, listening to the faint sounds of water trickling down from outside the building. “I could use an umbrella.”

The interview and the little game we had played finished earlier than I had expected, but it definitely gave me more than enough time to think to myself. Perhaps it was because I was quite sentimental that I stood so long in the rain so late in the night, simply letting my mind wander as I tried my best to balance on my own two feet, focusing on my shoes so my mind would stay in one place. I was a lightweight, I'm sure I've said that somewhere, I'm sure people know that. 

When Yunseo had finally arrived, I was one step away from passing out from the alcohol getting into my system. I nearly tripped if someone hadn't held me up by my arms.

I came back to my senses with someone shaking my arms to keep me afloat along with Yunseo who was really trying his best to keep me from flopping down.

“Hey, hey. Wake up, buddy.” This person says, using my hand to slap my own face back and forth, effectively forcing me to open my eyes and put some strength into my legs.

“I’m so–” I nearly hurl, Yunseo tells me that I almost vomited on the car that night, to which I would always deny because I have no clear recollection of it. Only that I was throwing up air on the sidewalk for a couple of minutes, with Yunseo and the stranger trying their best to make me vomit something to release the pressure.

I remained sitting on the curb for a couple more minutes, listening to Yunseo apologize profusely to the stranger whose hair probably had all the colors known to man, while the said stranger simply refused his apologies and insisted that it was alright. Once I had regained my sense–as well as my shame–I stood up with the two worried looking people following suit.

“I'm truly sorry for making such a hassle. If we could make it up to you by giving you a ride, it would make us less embarrassed.” I say, hiccuping in between the words as I stare at the stranger, who was just a teeny tiny bit concerned of whether I should be standing or not.

The man shakes his hand in the air, “Please just drive home safely.”

Yunseo interjects, “We insist.”

The man looks embarrassed, flushing a few shades darker as he explains, “Well, my destination is somewhere unconventional, so it may be a bit–”

I groan, “This whole situation is unconventional. So really, who are we to judge?”

At first, the man looked hesitant, reasonably so since he was currently facing a clearly drunk man and a man who looked like he was a kicked puppy who was desperate to give him a ride, but he eventually accepted our offer and whispers to Yunseo where his destination was, which earned a doubtful look from him.

“It’s the least we could do for him, Yunseo.” I say, opening the door to the car before holding it for the stranger, half asleep as I do so.

The stranger, Sungeun, was apparently a performer at this place he was going to, which must've been a rave or a club as it looked like he was about to sing rock or metal with the piercings and leather outfit he had on. I thought he looked cool, and I told him the party must be fun, and he gave me a sheepish look before saying, “It is.”

When we had arrived at Sungeun’s drop off location I stepped out of the car before Yunseo could stop me, holding the door and the umbrella open for Sungeun to take. It seems as if our conversation on the ride there had made him trust me a bit, seeing as he was quickly willing to take the umbrella I was holding for him when I offered it. 

“You’re nicer than you look, Lee Jeonghyeon. You’re not the fuckboy they make you out to be, after all.” He says, patting me on my cheek before walking into the smoky alleyway, signaling me to sit back in the car.

I don’t remember the ride back home nor the words Yunseo was trying to tell me, but I do remember the day after. Yunseo didn’t wake me up that Saturday morning, letting me sleep in until the afternoon when I felt the sourness of last night’s drinking session dawn on me. When I had walked downstairs to the living room I found Yunseo who was quiet, which meant that something was wrong and that it wasn’t something either of us could stomach so early in the morning.

I thought it wasn’t anything of importance, just like the rest of the headlines, so I didn’t mind it at first, walking around the house to do my usual routine: brew some tea, sweep the floor, make breakfast, throw the trash, take a shower, read the newspaper, then finally use the rest of the day to continue my novel.

But when I had finally sat down on the couch across the still quiet Yunseo to read the newspaper, I was shocked to see the front page of the daily Times. Like most articles, it had a title that could ruin me; but unlike all the other ones, this one was clear in its intentions: this one wanted me to talk. 

The first picture was me sitting on the ground with cans of beer around me, with a pixelated faced Yunseo and Sungeun sitting close to me, holding my back. It spelled the words alcoholic bastard right in my face, names that I could accept anytime hadn’t it been for the second picture. It was me and Sungeun standing right by the car, with his hand on my cheek, taken in an angle that made it look like we were doing more than that. It was clear what they wanted to say: that I was a man with a dubious background that slept with anyone who was willing to be the next muse of my novel, regardless of if it cost me my dignity as a man and loyalty as a husband.

“You're too aloof.” Yunseo finally says, a scrunched brow and downturned eyes telling me all I needed to know. He was telling me to be careful and not to leave the house even if it killed me, and I couldn’t agree more. It seemed as if this would take more than staying indoors for a few days to quiet everyone down.

Not having a television saved me, but it was a different case for Ricky, who hadn’t called or answered the phone once the entire week. I prayed that he was just busy, I prayed that he lost the remote, I prayed that for once the news would spare me and neglect its job. I don’t know how much he can handle, and I know that his patience was thinning with every scandal and agitation growing with every missed telephone call.

It had been two weeks since Yunseo silently declared me on house arrest when the telephone rang, and it would be a lie for me to say that I wasn’t scared to pick it up despite knowing who would be calling.

“Ricky?” I called.

“Jeonghyeon.” He replied after a while, proud voice failing him when it cracked at the end. “Sorry for not calling back.”

“It’s okay, really. I…” I tried to lie, unable to find the right words to say except– “Is it a good time to tell you I missed you?”

“I missed you… too.” Ricky can’t hide the smile even if he tried to, I can tell that much. “And I saw the news, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I’m sorry.” I say first.

“Why?”

“Because I feel like I’m making you worry every time this happens. Even if I did not want it to be published, even if they aren’t true; it’s unfair to you to have to put up with it.”

Ricky huffs on the other line, “I’m glad you’re aware of that. But it’s not my name that’s being slandered right now, it’s yours.”

“Well, I can handle it being slandered.”

“Well, I can’t.” Ricky presses, “I trust that you would never betray me, so please, trust me that I would be there for you. You shouldn’t have to carry all of this on your own, because you have me now.”

I smile, giggling into the telephone as I imagine him pressing his index finger to my chest, emphasizing every syllable to get every word to my head, his brows would be furrowed and eyes would be sharp as he speaks, adorable as ever.

“I trust you. Having you is the greatest comfort I could have and that’s enough to keep me afloat.”

“You lovely idiot.” Ricky preens, giggling before going quiet. “What time is it there?”

“Around seven in the evening. Why?”

“It’s not that late. I can still make a few calls.” Ricky mumbles.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Let me handle this, okay? I want you to be able to sleep; that is enough for me.” He whispers me, “Oh, and expect a new painting to be sent over tomorrow.”

After the call with Ricky I felt a bit better than before, I was still a bit anxious of walking outside or answering phone calls, but it did help me sleep a bit earlier compared to the previous week.

It had already been two weeks since that article was published when Yunseo had burst into my office one afternoon after he went out to buy some lunch, with a smile that I hadn't seen in a few weeks back on his face. He slams the newest issue on my desk, stopping me completely from my work as I stare at him confusedly.

“I thought you told me not to read that crap?”

Yunseo huffs, “Yeah, well, read it anyway.”

I raise a brow at him, watching his unchanging satisfied expression urge me to read it. I pick it up hesitatingly, biting the inside of my cheek as I read the headline, mentally preparing myself for anything and everything. A familiar face catches my attention, and it is none other than my dear friend Terazono Keita who was at the center of it all. It reads: ‘“We are blowing the whistle on the wrong men” Says TV Show Keita For Writer Lee Jeonghyeon!’

I called him the second I had finished reading the article, a bit out of it as I begged for an explanation over the phone. “Why would you–”

“I told you, didn’t I? From one to another, I would do anything to help you.”

“By exposing your show guests as cheaters and gamblers and– the dirtiest kinds of human beings who value capitalism over anything else, compared to a man who only has the purest of love ?” I say without stuttering, reading the article in my hand word by word as I try to wrap my head in the whole situation. Last night I was the nation’s devil incarnate but today I was the next saint; if I was stupid, I would have thought that some divine intervention was playing with me.

Keita laughs, “They really are terrible people, though. They had even planted the photographers that night, you know? They were jealous of you yet adored you on camera, did you know that?” Keita emphasizes, cursing under his breath as he speaks about them like shit on the sidewalk. I grimace at the thought of how scary such a small person could be, but I don’t tell him that. “And I had already been planning this long before your scandal broke out.”

“You could get sued for this.”

“Oh, that isn’t an issue. I have friends who promise to have my back as long as I tell the press all of this.”

“That’s awfully confident of you.” I sigh, rubbing my palm onto my face as I breathe in and out, feeling like the only person in our friendship who has common sense and fear, as a human being should have. “What makes you think those celebrities you exposed would let you off?”

“Trust.” Keita says, confident and relaxed, unafraid of what was to come as he spoke slowly. “You have it, right?”

I stilled, unable to speak or move, eyes automatically moving towards the opposite wall, particularly staring at the painting that had been sent not even a week ago. It was a handsome painting, but now it felt like a promise, a declaration of sorts, and it made sense to me at that moment.

“A divine intervention.”

“Shut up, lover boy.”

"From Shen Ricky,

You are an enigma, Lee Jeonghyeon. Please clean the house before I get home, the amount of drafts I have to go through and throw away because of how erotic you write about me is scandalous. My love, you kill me, your gaze is too strong and your words are too proud; I did not say that you shouldn't write anymore, but I beg you to tone it down.

I love you, you know that right? The world may know what makes the final cut but I know your true, unspoken words. I love you. Keep safe and please have some shame.

To Lee Jeonghyeon.”

He looked down on the desk, suddenly snapping out of autopilot as he scans the dimming room around him. It had been hours since Yujin and Jeonghyeon had finished their final recording, four days of continuous talking and asking and recording and transcribing– the whole shit. It was like dropping a bucket of water on Yujin every second that he had difficulty catching up to the story, like he was drowning in how much love and adoration and struggle that Lee Jeonghyeon had to go through. It was definitely informative, it had even sorted a few things out with Yujin himself as he read back into their conversations hours or days prior.

And right now Yujin was simply connecting the pieces together, stretching his back before slumping down on the offices chair that he was pretty sure he had left a dent on from how long he had been sitting there, yawning into his hand before he continued on typing on the keys, telling the tale of Lee Jeonghyeon, the writer, the lover, who was busy sleeping on the couch a few meters from the hard working Han Yujin.

It was already nine in the evening, when Yujin had decided to retire for the day, satisfied as he’s seeing that he had covered at least half of today’s story. He had made extreme progress within these past few nights of pulling all-nighters, he was actually confident that he may be able to finish the story in two weeks. Which was just in line for the photoshoot that Kamden had scheduled a few weeks prior.

Yujin gets up, but he pauses when he realises that there was a sound coming from downstairs, as if someone had just entered the house. Yujin thinks of two things that could possibly happen: one is that some jealous prick had actually broke into Jeonghyeon's house knowing full well that Yujin and him were recording the interview and now he was going to steal their days-worth of progress; the second thing that could happen is someone had broken in to kill both of them, which has Yujin’s senses tingling because he was not going to die when he was this close to finishing the fucking interview.

So instead, Yujin slowly creeps across the floor of the study, grabbing the nearest dull object that could kill someone if he bashes their head with it hard enough. He breathes in, Fuck, I shouldn't be doing this, and he exhales, stepping out of the study only to find that a tall man was standing right outside. Shocked, Yujin drops the object and it almost crashes onto the ground, but the tall man was quick enough to catch it before it lands. 

“Uh, hi.”  The man whispers, and Yujin only scrunches his brows together as he tries to assess the probability that this man was going to kill him and the chances of him surviving, “Is Jeonghyeon here?” He asks.

Yujin panics, “No.”

“Oh, um. Okay.” The man awkwardly says, putting down the object Yujin was about to hit him with on a nearby table. The man was tall, a bit shorter than Jeonghyeon but he was almost his height. He was pale and had dark hair, and he looked like he had just came from the airport from his attire and suitcase. He scratches his head, confused as he stared at the note in his hands. He looks up from the note and stares Yujin, scaring him a bit because of how sharp he looked at him, like a hawk looking at its prey. Don't get Yujin wrong, but the man was handsome, too much that Yujin didn't want to see another inch of his face. “Do you know where he is?”

“Uh, no. Sorry.” Yujin says, trying to close the door to the study behind him, stepping into the hallway to face the tall man in front of him. Jeonghyeon was currently asleep, defenseless and has absolutely no idea that there was a fucking stranger outside his room who could potentially be a serial killer who decided they were his next victims. And Yujin was but sixteen, too young to die. “But I could tell him you were here if you gave me your name.” He tries to alleviate the situation.

Here, the man brightened up and he nodded calmly, his closed off aura fading into one of warmth. “Sure, my name is Shen Ricky.” Yujin pauses. Suddenly, he feels stupid as fuck right now, because right in front of him was the mystery lover himself that everyone had been searching for. It was the Ricky in Jeonghyeon's stories, the muse and subject of all of his desires, he was the man that made all of the paintings in Jeonghyeon's current house, and he was the one that got Lee Jeonghyeon writing again.

“Actually, I do know where he is, Ricky.” Yujin says, a small smile playing on his lips as he opens the door to the study and points at the couch, where Jeonghyeon was sleeping with a blanket over him. Ricky slowly walks in, looking at where Yujin was pointing at. And Yujin could see from the way Ricky’s face changed from suspicion to adoration that he was utterly, and disgustingly in love, and he knows that it was love because he's seen that look somewhere. He sees it on Gyuvin whenever he catches sight of Gunwook. He's seen it on Jeonghyeon whenever the conversation turned back to Ricky. He's seen it a thousand times that Yujin can identify it from the small quirk of his lips to the silent yet contented resignation that said I'm home.

Ricky stalks towards the sleeping figure, eyes full of sweet yet pure adoration as he approaches Jeonghyeon. He sits beside his husband, brushing his finger to the older man’s face as if he was handling glass, fragile and dear.

Ricky doesn't look away from the sleeping man, simply staring deep into every detail on his face, analyzing the years that had etched itself onto his lover’s skin. “And you must be Han Yujin?” Ricky says quietly so as to not awaken his sleeping beauty.

Yujin nods, “I am. We had just finished today, but I may return tomorrow to complete the final work before submitting it to my higher ups.” Ricky nods, caressing the skin on Jeonghyeon’s cheek before he properly covers the sleeping man with the blanket draped over him.

“Then you better go home early, it’s quite late now.” Ricky says, sighing as he looks around the study before returning his eyes on Yujin, who was standing awkwardly by the desk to clean up before leaving. Yujin nods, feeling like he was intruding on something personal, deciding to grab his satchel from the floor before Ricky speaks up again, “But it’s quite dangerous, so maybe I could drive you home instead?”

When Yujin looks up from his position on the floor searching for his bag, he finds Ricky  staring at him softly, as if he was just looking at some domesticated animal. There wasn’t anything wrong with getting a ride from Ricky, after all; it was free and it was safer than taking the bus, and it was offered by someone he knows–via Jeonghyeon’s storytelling. So, he nods.

“That would be nice.” Yujin says, standing from his position while he slings the bag over his shoulder and rests it on his hip. “Thank you.”

The ride home was smooth and quiet with Ricky driving, he only talked ever so often to ask about the directions, or sometimes to ask about how the interview was going. It was all clearly small talk, but Yujin wasn’t dumb, and he could tell that Ricky was waiting for the right moment to ask him something.

“How is… Gunwook and Gyuvin?” Ricky finally asks the question Yujin’s been waiting for, which punches Yujin awake because of how unexpected it was. He’s driven into shock and terror because he was afraid that he was going to find out something he didn’t want to, or rather, he was going to be found out. Ricky sees the panic in his eyes through the rearview mirror, so he quickly elaborates his question to not scare the poor kid who looked too tired to respond. “I meant– Gunwook and Gyuvin were orphans, and I was a bit older than them but I came from the same orphanage.”

Now this is a story Yujin doesn’t hear everyday.

Ricky carries on, “I was already too old to stay when they had just arrived, but they were a big help to my friend who came from the same place.” He explains, turning the car to the right where Yujin had directed them to. Yujin nods along, looking at Ricky’s solemn and apologetic expression. “And when we found out that you were their brother, I suggested Jeonghyeon to let you interview him, because I knew that writing about us wouldn’t be too culture shocking for someone who had family from the same community.”

Yujin sighed, leaning his back as he thought about Ricky’s words more, before it dawned on him. “You thought it was safer that way.”

“I believed you would be able to understand us.” The older man explained, car coming to a stop as they have finally arrived at their destination. Ricky turned back, looking at Yujin softly before he said, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

The dark haired man sighs, “I know it feels like we took advantage of you and your background,” Ricky says, eyes turning downcast as he gripped the leather seat, trying to explain but also sympathize with Yujin who must have felt a thousand times shittier than he did, “But we didn’t just pick you because your brothers are gay. We picked you because we knew how well you are able to understand the people you are with and how you are able to make other people understand.” Ricky confessed, slow with his words but sure of it nonetheless, not a single lie or fallacy in his words because he was so confident that Yujin was the only one who could do it. In this way, Yujin knows that Ricky was allowing only him to do it for them.

The responsibility that he had been entrusted with was just as heavy as any burden he was tasked to bear, but it was with Ricky’s words that made Yujin understand how important his role was in all of this. Han Yujin wasn’t just any disposable aspiring writer they couldn’t give less of a fuck about, he wasn’t just a random writer that they chose fishbowl-method style; Han Yujin was the author of Lee Jeonghyeon’s final public appearance, and he’ll keep writing and keep proving himself to be capable of so much more.

Yujin looked outside the car window, eyes catching sight of the second floor of their apartment complex, where the fourth unit from the right was the only one with an open light inside with the curtains wide open. His view of their home was more clear now, in the sense that Yujin knew he had a family to protect and uplift.

Yujin released his bottom lip from his habitual bite to release a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. “Jeonghyeon once told me… that his story was one step for everyone.” He recalls, eyes still staring at their bright and warm unit, as if it was a lighthouse in his night of confusion and wariness, and he knows he’ll be home soon because there’s a shadow walking back and forth inside their unit and he knows it’s Gyuvin because he can’t sleep until their youngest is home. Yujin looks back at Ricky, eyes firm and resolve established, “I’m simply helping him–and all of you, including my brothers–take that first step.”

He doesn’t feel like that look of nervousness suited someone like Ricky, and it helped him breathe lightly to see that he had washed Ricky's worries away. “Thank you.” Ricky says, unlocking the car’s locks before he nodded towards Yujin’s direction. “Goodnight, Yujin.”

Yujin looks back, nodding at the older male before he opens the door to climb out, then he looks back at Ricky again, “Goodnight, Ricky.” Yujin says, shutting the car door before moving back to watch Ricky drive back home.

When he opens their front door he’s immediately pulled inside only to be embraced by two monsters who looked like they had just found their golden egg, which was not a very far off comparison because Gyuvin and Gunwook did indeed see Yujin as the most important thing in their life.

And Yujin only sits there as they smother him with affection, with Gyuvin in charge of telling him How much we missed you while Gunwook was responsible for telling him to Go eat and rest up, good job today! But Yujin was in charge of saying the most important thing.

“Gyu? Wook?” Yujin calls, and Gyuvin immediately turns to look at him before he enters the room, pulling Gunwook from inside the room with him as they both face him. These two were the most important people in his life, they were the only people who gave him a sense of normalcy when Yujin felt like his world was nothing but a mess. They were the kindest to him when no one else was. “I love you.”

He watches Gunwook melt, trying to pick himself up while Gyuvin is bursting with joy, carrying Gunwook in his arms as they both snuggle towards Yujin with pride. He lets Gyuvin kiss the top of his head, but he visibly churns when Gyuvin twists Gunwook to kiss him directly on the lips. He calls them Gross and they laugh, smothering him with more affection and cuddles and kisses. And he loved them because of it, because of their kindness and humanity and unconditional love and support. That was what they deserved, that was what he needed to return.

"From Lee Jeonghyeon,

And you are mine, Shen Ricky. I know how much you love my drafts, please don't pretend to be ashamed of it. I fear you do not hear yourself every night when you are with me. And I fear that if my gaze goes soft or if my words turn frail it will not reach you, so I must attack you as I am now.

You are immortalized in my memory, my love. When people speak my name you will always be spoken about with me. I love you too. Be safe and stay shameless with me.

To Shen Ricky."

“You did a great job, Yujin.”

“Did I?”

Kamden rolls his eyes, scoffing at the boy’s arrogance, “Yes. You did. Good job, kid.” Kamden said sarcastically, chuckling as Yujin had forced a compliment out of him, watching the workers move around the furniture as Jeonghyeon placed the paintings in just the right places on the clear wall of his office. He wanted to include Ricky’s paintings in the cover alongside the books he had written over the past two decades.

Today was the day of the photoshoot for the cover of the interview, where all of this was finally coming together right in front of Yujin’s eyes. To be honest, it made him proud, a bit scared, but mostly proud because he was seeing his work pay off. Soon, he’ll be looking at the cover of his piece and he’ll be reminded of the long hours he had spent pulling his shit together.

It felt so surreal seeing this happen in the very room that Yujin had begun working in, because last week Jeonghyeon’s office had nothing but a bunch of books and paintings in it, the only life that was breathing in it were Jeonghyeon, Yujin, and the scattered plants that Yujin was damn sure were fake but Jeonghyeon insisted were real. And now it felt so alive and cramped, full of people and technology that Yujin was quite unfamiliar with.

Yujin feels someone bump their shoulder against his, so Yujin immediately turns to apologize promptly before he realizes that it was actually Ricky. He looked serene even in this setting, compared to last night where he looked sharp and cutthroat in his all black airport clothes, he was now sporting a fuzzy sweater and mint slacks. He looked right at home.

Ricky had his arms crossed over one another, a warm smile on his lips as he stood beside Yujin who looked calm but was actually feeling constipated.

“You look like you’re about to throw up.” Ricky whispers, still acting as a bystander amidst the chaos that was happening in his own home.

Yujin grunts, “I’m not good with crowds.”

“Me neither.” Ricky hums, looking around the room trying to find where his husband is except he gives up when he can’t find Jeonghyeon anywhere, so he decides to bother Yujin instead. “There’s a veranda upstairs if you need some air,” Ricky suggests, but he sighs playfully as he turns back to find Jeonghyeon finally arriving at the scene. He was wearing an all black suit, with his hair styled casually. Yujin already knows what face Ricky was making, so he doesn’t bother reacting to the small gasp Ricky lets out. “Ah, but it would be a shame not to see him finish your work.”

Yujin sees it in Ricky’s eyes, the love, the spark and the pride as he watches Jeonghyeon, who was just across the damn room, with so much fondness that he can’t hide it. Ricky’s lips parted as he stared at the way Jeonghyeon spoke with the staff, as if he was saving a damn kitten from a burning tree or some shit.

Yujin groans, realizing that he’s never going to escape that damn look anywhere he goes, catching Ricky’s smug attention, “We get it. You’re in love with your husband. Get a room.” He whispers, pretending to be disgusted, making Ricky laugh earnestly.

“You’ve written about us far too much to be disgusted with this, Yujin.” Ricky retorts a matter of fact-ly, a satisfied expression on his face as he watches his husband from afar, who ever so often glanced towards Ricky’s direction before smiling brightly at the camera.

"No, I've written about Lee Jeonghyeon being disgustingly in love with his mystery lover."

Ricky scowls, "Put a name to his lover, you fool. You have my permission. Tell the world that Shen Ricky is Lee Jeonghyeon's, and he is mine."