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Riwoo has a dream like this:
There’s a white stage, on which Riwoo stands alone. There’s no music. Riwoo sees patrons streaming in to fill every single seat in the theater. None of them have a face.
But he knows they’re watching. Waiting. He tries to move. He has to move. He can’t move.
He wakes up in a gasp, blanket clinging to his cold sweat.
It happens in the deaf of winter. Riwoo walks out of Seoul Metropolitan Theatre at the tail end of every year, December on his shoulders, frustration bubbling within him. All his life he’d been told he’s a one-of-a-kind talent, destined for greatness. But it’s never enough. He can break into a million pairs of dance shoes, break a hundred more bones in his body and nothing would change. He tells himself this—that there’s no point if he can’t break records and set new ones in the same breath.
One minute, Riwoo’s replaying his underwhelming performance in his mind, over and over again, chastising himself for every mediocre move he’d pulled off.
The next, he’s mangled under miscellaneous car parts with sharp steel shrapnel gashing his legs.
“It is unlikely,” his doctor clears his throat and looks at him straight, “that you will be able to move in the same way again.”
But Riwoo already knows that. His body knows that.
When Riwoo first comes to, he rolls on the bed and screams.
It takes four months for the pain to subside. Eight in total for him to be discharged from the hospital. He spends another year at his apartment, taking his days easy but not so much recovering from the lasting wounds.
The first three weeks involve Taesan helping him wash and massage his back, Sungho borrowing his kitchen to cook a generous amount of meals. Eventually, they leave, only because Riwoo can’t stand to see another person in front of his face.
He knows what people are saying out there about his injuries and his career and hates every part of it. They talk about him like he’s dead. And they’re not even wrong because Riwoo might as well be ash and dust if he can’t dance anymore.
Taesan never brings up his scars. When Riwoo’s able to one day carefully crane his head over his shoulder and look at his reflection in the mirror, he turns away before he sees anything.
Touching the raised and rough skin with trembling fingers is enough to map them out. Above anything, Riwoo’s scared. He’s scared of what he’ll find if he does try to look and would much rather coddle to the blind comfort. It’s all he has.
Riwoo blinks open a pair of bleary eyes when Woonhak comes barreling into his room, tearing open his dusty curtains one morning to proudly announce that he’s moving back to Ulsan hometown.
Considering Woonhak barges in at about eight in the morning, apparently with a secret copy of Riwoo’s key, Riwoo’s not entirely sure why he lets himself be dragged along his plans. Maybe ‘hometown’ had been starting to sound nice after all those suffocating years caught in the metropolitan maw of Seoul.
Maybe Riwoo just feels bad for the two burly guys Woonhak hired to pack and haul all of his belongings into the moving truck.
“Riwoo-hyung,” Woonhak says to him, cheery. “Many people are eager to see you back home. They miss you, a lot.”
Riwoo wants to say no. That he doesn’t want to see anyone back home. But he’s weary just from thinking about it. People know him in Ulsan. A different type of knowing from how the busy people of Seoul recognize his face from billboards and posters advertising the theater.
Everyone that knows him like that had told him first and foremost, that they’re sorry. For what? For crushing him under a vehicle on the side of the road and permanently disfiguring his body? And what’s Riwoo meant to say, ‘thanks’?
Riwoo doesn’t want pity. He wants to fade away like a ghost. For himself and the world to forget about everything.
“I am not attending any welcome home parties when we get there,” Riwoo says, picking up a backpack. Woonhak gasps.
“Hyung, it’s okay!” Looking horrified, Woonhak calls one of the big guys over. He takes it right out of Riwoo’s hand. “You’ve got to take it easy from here on out.”
Riwoo’s eyes narrow at the stupidly tall guy. “I can carry an empty bag by myself,” he grumbles. “And you better destroy that copy of the key after we leave.”
Ulsan is just as Riwoo remembers it. Slow and salt in the breeze, salt on the back of his tongue.
The same old place. Aside from the new tattoo parlor down the street from the fish shop.
Huh.
Riwoo isn’t sure what he’s expecting. The first thing he sees are the colorful framed drawings of landscapes and animals and intricate flora strewn all over the walls, packed tightly to fit within an already compact space.
The second thing Riwoo sees is Leehan at the front counter, huffing over an open sketchbook.
Riwoo almost doesn’t recognize him. He’d gotten his ears pierced—like, a lot—and a dragon’s serpentine body coils around his left arm. A long, spindling vine twines his other arm, with the shapes of flowers Riwoo remembers dotting the hills and the bushes by the road to his old middle school. He and Leehan wove flower crowns for each other, sometimes, and Riwoo would keep them until they crinkled and rotted and his aunt yelled at him about it.
“Leehan?”
A slip of the tongue—Leehan peers up from his work and Riwoo watches the moment his eyes widen in surprise.
“Riwoo-hyung. You’re back.”
Riwoo presses his lips together.
“Yeah.”
Leehan puts down his pen. He offers him a smile. “How have you been?”
“Fine. You?”
“Fine as well, thank you,” Leehan says, still smiling.
Riwoo blinks. Surely Leehan’s heard of what happened—because everyone has—but it doesn’t seem to be lingering anywhere on his mind. Finally, a conversation without the obligatory breath of remorse. A nice change.
Leehan crosses his arms, his gaze gentle and welcoming.
“We haven’t spoken in a while, have we?”
Riwoo hums in agreement. He stands a couple of steps inside, next to the potted green maple by the door, unsure of what he’s here to do.
“Five years,” Riwoo recalls, “ish.”
“Really? It’s been that long?” Leehan laughs. “It feels like not much time has passed when I look at you, for some reason. You don’t seem to have changed much.”
Riwoo’s opinion couldn’t be further from that, but he doesn’t have any interest in correcting him. “You’ve definitely changed,” he says, eyeing Leehan’s arms.
“A bit.”
“I thought you’d become an artist.”
“I did,” Leehan says. He glances at the wall decorated with his work. “There’s a special kind of beauty to art that lives and breathes on an animated body. Something about it just draws me in.”
Riwoo absently gazes at Leehan’s work. They’re beautiful. Leehan’s formal training in traditional arts shows through in the technique of every piece, though Leehan strays from the masters’ approach to color and shape in subtle ways.
The inkwork’s elegant, fleeting. Like you could smear your thumb over the ginkgo leaves Leehan had tattooed over someone’s nape and it’d disappear for good.
“Are you interested in my work?”
Riwoo startles, turning to Leehan. “Sorry, I… was just admiring them. They’re very well done.” His ears are flaring up. He should go. “It was good to see you.”
Unfazed by Riwoo’s abrupt shyness, Leehan waves his hand. “Come by whenever you feel like it, hyung. I’d love to catch up with you sometime.”
Two nights in, the word of Riwoo’s return spread.
It’s a small, confined sort of town where the majority of the residents are elderly and love to chatter at the local markets. It is an inevitable tide of time that others would hear of Riwoo moving back in even if Woonhak makes the effort to keep it on the down low. Until at least Riwoo starts to feel comfortable with himself.
Riwoo’s not comfortable. In this town, or in himself. He didn't think he'd ever find a proper place for himself again, not in the way he used to belong on the stage, gleaming under the spotlights. Apparently that, too, was an assumption on his part. A foolish one, wrenched from his hands like it was never his to begin with.
When Riwoo spots a small crowd gathered around his and Woonhak’s shared home, he runs in the opposite direction.
At the other end of town, the tattoo parlor is just about to close its doors.
Leehan’s mopping the floor. A pair of black latex gloves dangle from his pocket. The overhead speakers softly croon out ballad music from the 80s.
Riwoo hunches over at the doorway, panting.
“Leehan.”
Leehan turns to him, blinking, gripping the mop. A brief flash of concern crosses his face, but he smiles still. “Riwoo-hyung? What’s up?”
“I need a place to stay,” Riwoo says. “Just for a few hours.”
Or however long it would take for the people to give up and leave. Riwoo’s not about to deal with them right now.
He just—he can’t.
He can hardly look at himself in the bathroom mirror, in the window panes of shops he whirls by. The mere idea of a crowd eager to see him bristles the hair on his body.
But, strangely enough, Leehan could stare at him, kind, unasking, like he is now. And Riwoo doesn’t brim with the urge to hide himself away.
“You’ll have to give me a moment,” Leehan says, pointing at his mop apologetically.
Grateful, Riwoo nods.
They’re on the balcony of Leehan’s old home that sleeps on the cusp of town borders. Their elbows touch gently on the lattice balustrade. Leehan’s balcony faces east of Ulsan. Some miles away, the shoal’s clear waters are shimmering in the twilight.
Leehan grabs a pack of cigarettes from inside. He rummages through his pocket for a lighter, then looks at Riwoo as though remembering something.
“Oh, do you mind if I…?”
“I don’t mind,” Riwoo says, and watches Leehan flick the lighter wheel. “Since when do you smoke?”
Leehan pecks his cigarette. Inhales slowly, in thought. “Not sure. Maybe last year.” The smoke trails out of his pursed lips. To Riwoo, he smiles. “No one knows I do.”
“It’s cool.”
Leehan laughs. “I’m glad you think so.”
They settle into a warm silence. Riwoo likes hearing the occasional deep breath from Leehan, seeing the forms his puffs of smoke take. He likes this. The slow passing of time. The myriad of stars in the sky that shy away from the city view.
“I didn’t think you’d come back,” Leehan says after a particularly long draw of smoke.
“I know,” Riwoo says. “Me neither.”
“Are you happier here?” Leehan asks. “Does it feel like home?”
The wind is carding through Leehan’s hair. It pushes his locks away, a less than subtle reminder to Riwoo how finely chiseled his face is. How Riwoo used to agonize over how obviously beautiful Leehan’s always been, despite it never seeming to cross Leehan’s mind.
“I don’t know. But this is the only place where I can find you.”
Leehan gives him a look, pinching his cigarette.
“You could’ve called if you wanted to talk. Woonhakie has our numbers.”
Riwoo shakes his head. It’s not like that. If simply calling solved the problem then he would have done that ages ago. It’s just. Being around Leehan. Breathing with Leehan.
Riwoo’s throat crackles. “I think I just missed you, Leehan.”
Nothing more, nothing less.
Leehan holds down his cigarette, arm lazed over the balustrade. He inches closer. His hand reaches out, showing his calloused palm, but he’s careful not to touch before Riwoo lets him.
“I missed you too.”
Riwoo pulls Leehan’s patient hand and guides it to his face. His palm is warm. “I could’ve come back sooner,” he mutters.
“It’s alright,” Leehan says, a smile in his voice. “Just the fact that you’re here, you know, that’s pretty special.”
When they kiss, Leehan tastes like ashy smoke. Leehan feels like a smooth metal stud in the trench of his tongue that presses into Riwoo’s mouth when Riwoo holds Leehan by the hips, closer and closer.
Life is slow. Sometimes it eases to a halt. The local grandmas eventually hold back on approaching Riwoo and bombarding him with every question in the universe about his career, a thing that once was. Woonhak isn’t home very often—he’s got his own in Seoul; Ulsan’s a temporary place he leaves in Riwoo’s steed for him to use as he pleases—so things are serene enough.
There isn’t much to do. Riwoo picks up novels from Woonhak’s untouched room from time to time, though he’d put them back down before finishing them. Sometimes he treks out on the plains at dusk, gazes over the rippling waters at night, and returns home with windblown hair.
Other times, the dreams disturb his sleep.
He never tries to grapple with them. Instead, he’d trudge over to Leehan’s place, never speaking of his dreams. Sometimes they kiss, sometimes they don’t.
Riwoo just knows it feels good sometimes, to have Leehan’s arms wrap around him and cage him in. Good enough, sometimes, to the point of tears rolling down his cheek because he doesn’t know what else to do when his heart squeezes against his ribs.
Sometimes, he sits in Leehan’s bathtub, on Leehan, fingers weaving into Leehan’s wet and heavy hair.
They kiss like this: with Riwoo straddling Leehan’s body, knees far apart. He lets his weight drop into Leehan to keep steady in the water. They don’t fill the bathtub much, knowing they’d probably slop out a good amount of the water otherwise.
Leehan girds Riwoo’s narrow waist by the hands. His habit is to leave kisses along the line of Riwoo’s chin, down his neck until Riwoo needs to push away and take a breath. It’s difficult for Riwoo not to release any embarrassing, stuttered noises.
Leehan is… good at kissing. Good at kissing Riwoo. Good at showing Riwoo which parts of his body he likes to kiss the most (which really seems like all of his body because Leehan’s not a picky guy).
“Leehan.”
“Hmm?”
Riwoo’s chest rises and falls. “Let me… turn around.”
Leehan levels his gaze onto Riwoo’s.
“Okay.”
Riwoo straightens his posture. Leehan lets go of him. Gripping the edge of the bathtub, Riwoo gets up from his knees and turns around to sit back down.
Without a word, Riwoo sits and waits.
He doesn’t see Leehan’s reaction, whatever it may have been. What he does hear is the water shifting and sloshing, feeling it lapping at his arms nervously tucked to his body.
With no change in his voice, Leehan asks, “Can I massage you?”
“Sure,” Riwoo quietly says.
He shudders when Leehan’s hands first start gliding across his back. Leehan moves in even, smooth lengths. He kneads into Riwoo’s softer muscles. His palms stroke and caress every part of his back, easy and effective like the scars were never there.
Leehan follows the shape of Riwoo’s back, guided by his bends. Like he’s simply taking in what Riwoo was. Like this is simply another one of Leehan’s kisses, and a kiss to them was nothing more than a little note of tenderness.
Riwoo hugs his knees. “Leehan?”
“Yes?” Leehan answers behind him.
“Why do you touch me like—like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re amazed by it.”
Leehan laughs a bit. “I am.”
“No, but.” Riwoo doesn’t know how to word it. He’s never thought of it through the mouth, the tongue. “I can’t look at it.”
“You wanted to show me.”
“I don’t know why,” Riwoo admits. “I thought it’d change if you saw.”
Riwoo hears an exhale. “Tell me if you don’t like this,” Leehan murmurs to him.
“What are you—”
He loses the chance to finish his thought. The introduction of Leehan’s arms curling around his waist stuns Riwoo enough to cut off his soundless gasp.
This is different. This is close. Raw. Riwoo’s naked back to Leehan’s toned chest, pressed flush to one another. They’re so close. Riwoo’s surrounded by Leehan, Leehan. Leehan’s faint heartbeats pulsing into his back. His careful breaths wisping against his nape.
A year ago, Riwoo wouldn’t have done this. He would’ve tried to run. He’s quiet right now, but his fingers are clinging to Leehan’s forearms and keep them firmly in place. Leehan reacts with a gentle pull, an encouragement for Riwoo to permit himself this.
And Riwoo does. He shrinks into Leehan’s arms, filling the space, nuzzling against his body. For once in so long, he’s content as he is, as things are.
Leehan’s head tilts to the side.
“How do you feel?”
“I don’t really know,” Riwoo whispers, looking over his shoulder. “I can’t tell what you think of them.”
“What if I said I didn’t think anything of them?”
A pause. “I wouldn’t believe you,” Riwoo says.
“I’m being truthful.” Leehan grasps one of Riwoo’s hands, kissing him on the knuckles. “It’s okay. You can think I’m lying, if you want.”
Riwoo looks away. Leehan’s no liar—even if some things that come out of his mouth sound too good to be true.
A low, drawn-out noise rumbles out of Leehan. His arms tuck Riwoo even closer, leaving no air between their skin. He’s heavy, but a comfortable weight that keeps Riwoo grounded when he needs it.
“You scare me sometimes,” Riwoo says.
Leehan’s bemused noise presses into the cold skin of Riwoo’s shoulder.
“How so?”
“I feel so bare around you. Like, I want to open myself up to you and have you watch me. And you do watch me. Always.”
Leehan pouts in mock hurt. “That sounds like I’m a creep.”
“I don’t mean it that way. It’s just.” Riwoo swallows. He hadn’t noticed his fingers were trembling again. “It’s weird. I’m not sure if I feel like myself around you.”
“You’re sure it’s not the other way around?” Leehan teases.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I haven’t figured out a lot.”
“We have time,” Leehan assures. He kisses Riwoo’s shoulder. They have plenty of time.
Riwoo practically lives at Leehan’s home. He’d barely step foot on his own, maybe to grab some clothes on occasion—to fill Leehan’s closet—and Woonhak would send him some incredulous texts about how the whole place was coated in dust. As an apology he and Leehan would return to dust the house, and Woonhak would prod for an embarrassing amount of relationship details as reimbursement.
They have some festive nights where they eat together at home while Taesan and Sungho come to visit.
It’s a brief moment with a stomach filled with warm food, a smile shared with a laughing Leehan where Riwoo offhandedly realizes he’s in love.
It’s no burst of passion or overflow of feelings. Just an old sort of love that comes as slow as nature steadily taking its course.
“I’ve always thought about it,” Leehan says. “How I’d draw a piece on you.”
They’re at the shoal together. The shallow waters cling to their ankles, the onshore breeze blows back Riwoo’s unbuttoned blouse. He looks at Leehan. They hold hands, stepping in the sand with bare feet, counting the half buried conches they pass by.
“Don’t scars get in the way?”
“Not at all,” Leehan says. “Lots of people come to get tattooed over their scars.”
Riwoo frowns. “But that would hurt.”
“No such thing as a painless tattoo, hyung.” Leehan stops. “As to whether your scars would hurt, I wouldn’t know. Only you would.”
Leehan lifts their hands. His fingers weave into the grooves between Riwoo’s. The thin gold chain on his wrist slips down to the heel of his palm. Riwoo wears a chain identical to Leehan’s on his ankle.
“Do you really want to?” Riwoo asks.
“I’d be honored to,” Leehan says. “I choose my canvases when I can.”
Riwoo’s face scrunches. They stand in one spot where the sun blazes on their tanning skin from the horizon, orange and brilliant as it is when they gaze from Leehan’s balcony.
“You pick your clients?”
Leehan pinches Riwoo’s locks, combing it behind his ear. He shakes gently with laughter. “No, I couldn’t afford to do that. It’s just nice when I have the choice. My vision is different. Intimate, I guess. Especially if my canvas is so dear to my heart.”
The heat rushes to Riwoo’s face. “Leehan—”
Before he can say anything more, Leehan hooks his arm under Riwoo’s knees, the other cradling the small of his back. In a swift motion, Riwoo’s swept off of his feet and carried into Leehan’s arms like a newlywed. Damp clusters of sand fall from his dangling legs.
“Leehan!” Riwoo laughs—really laughs—as he hugs Leehan’s neck.
Leehan’s enamored all over his face, his wide grin. “You’re even lighter than I imagined, hyung.”
“Warn me next time you do that.”
“Will do.” Leehan’s eyes rake over Riwoo, glittering. “You’re pretty like this,” he says softly.
Riwoo feels so stupid and giddy in his heart. He cups Leehan’s face, ignoring how his vision is blurring. “So are you.”
Leehan is prettiest like this: brimming with affection, tender smile crinkling his eyes, so overwhelmed with love that his voice comes out as a mere husk of its usual timbre.
“You’re everything, Riwoo-hyung.”
“Just do me a favor and kiss me already.”
This is Riwoo’s dream:
He stands on the white stage. The theater is empty—except for Leehan watching on with a smile at the frontmost row. Riwoo takes a deep breath, leaps off of the stage, and takes flight.
(A great white heron, he’d remembered pointing from the sands of the shoal, arching back to watch it soar across the sunny blue sky. Leehan remembers it too when Riwoo tells him. Feather by feather, stem by stem. Wings on Riwoo’s back. The buzz of Leehan’s tattooing pen, and the same 80’s ballad music that Riwoo wonders when he’ll get tired of.)