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Cho Sang-woo needs money. Graduation, and a real job, is still eight months away, and the new semester’s books have already burned through his modest savings from summer tutoring. To his frustration, most of the odd jobs advertised around campus pay peanuts—₩4,000 an hour for backbreaking work. Tutoring opportunities will pick up again once the semester is underway, but he needs food now, not in a month. He browses the bulletin board outside the library, eyes scanning for any promising opportunities. Flyers for dog walkers, guitar lessons, a missing cat… nothing much that’s worth his time or attention. It catches his eye just as he turns to walk away— lemon yellow paper, a childish font, and, most importantly, a number: 80,000.
₩ ₩ ₩ Nude models needed for art exhibit ₩ ₩ ₩
Artistic body painting exhibit. Artist will apply paint and take photographs at their Samcheong-dong studio.
Photos will be displayed at Hakgojae gallery. Must be ok with full nudity.
No latex allergies!!!
Paint application takes approximately 4-6 hours, depending on size. ₩80,000 per hour. Call for more information.
He does the math in his head easily enough— almost ₩500,000 for six hours of work? And not even actual work, if you think about it.
Full nudity. The words are bolded and underlined, and slightly larger than the rest, as if to say I’m serious, please don’t waste my time if you’re not on board with it. He takes a moment to consider if he is on board with it. Sang-woo had always been a bit shy, a bit awkward in his body during the gangly teenage years. But he’s a man, now, determined to leave his introverted bookworm days behind him. He’s not so gangly, anymore, either, not since he discovered how well hitting the gym helps stave off his anxiety over grades, his future, everything.
He tears a tab from the bottom of the flyer and tucks the phone number into his pocket.
—
He calls two days later, after spending the last of his savings on convenience store ramyeon. The voice that answers sounds gruff and tired, not at all what he expected from the, albeit ambiguous, descriptor of artist.
“I, uh. I’m calling about the job? The modeling job? Is this…” he scans his memory for a name, but he’s pretty sure the flyer didn’t have one, “the artist?”
“Hang on,” the voice answers, then he hears a muffled yell, “oh the artist, call for you. Someone interested in modeling.”
There’s a loud bang in the background, followed by several smaller bangs, and finally, Sang-woo thinks, a meow from a very large, very upset cat. Then more muffled yelling in return, “Uh— kinda busy right now. Can you just schedule them for me? Any time on Sunday. Give them my studio address.”
The gruff voice returns, “you heard that?”
“Uh, yes. Sunday is fine for me. Around 1:00? What’s the address?”
He swears he hears a pained yelp in the background just as he hangs up.
—
What do you wear to a nude modeling gig? Sounds like the beginning of a bawdy joke, but it’s a question Sang-woo, chronic overachiever and self-proclaimed perfectionist, takes somewhat seriously. He opts for loose clothing— sweats and a light t-shirt— for ease of removal and to limit any clothing creases that more structured fabrics would leave on his skin. He arrives fifteen minutes early, paces for ten minutes on the street outside the studio, and rings the bell at 12:55.
“Just a minute!” Comes a sing-song voice from inside. He listens for any bangs or sounds of cats in distress, but thankfully hears none. When the door swings open at last, he’s already extending his arm, ready to shake the hand of “the artist”. He freezes, arm bent at an interim and awkward angle, when he sees the man’s face.
“Hyung?”
Gi-hun’s mouth hangs open for a moment, no doubt experiencing his own jolt of shock, before he smiles, big and toothy and radiant as the sun.
“Sang-woo?!” He yells and claps him on the shoulder, ushering him inside, “I can’t believe it! How long has it been?”
Three years, one month, thirteen days, his mind supplies without hesitation. The summer after graduation, one last hurrah between friends before they embarked on separate paths: Sang-woo to SNU, Gi-hun to try and make it as an artist. They’d run all over the city that day, laughing, drinking, making empty promises to keep in touch. Sang-woo runs the back of his hand over his mouth, feeling the phantom tingle of the cigarette they’d shared that night, and the phantom longing he vowed to keep to himself.
“What are you doing here?” Gi-hun continues, “Are you… are you here for the job? I figured the pride of Ssangmun-dong would be a wealthy businessman by now!”
The pride of Ssangmun-dong. Gi-hun had taken to calling him that when they were still in high school, after Sang-woo was accepted to SNU. Sang-woo had rolled his eyes then, and he rolls them again now, but he secretly loves the moniker. Not because he thinks it’s true, but because Gi-hun does.
“Uh…” real smooth, he thinks as he adjusts his glasses and looks around the studio, “I’m still in school. I have another year left.”
“Ah! So poor college student, I see a lot of your kind looking for modeling jobs!”
“You look like you’re doing well,” Sang-woo says, gesturing around the studio, “this place is huge. And the, uh, money you’re offering is quite a lot.”
Gi-hun leans close to him and says in a theatrical whisper, “Borrowed the money to pay for this art exhibit. Sure hope it pans out!”
Sang-woo hopes he means from a bank, but knowing Gi-hun, it’s he suspects it was from a loan shark.
“So! You still want to do this? I think you’ll make a great model, but I understand if it’s… weird for you, since we know each other.”
He wants to say no. No, I don’t want to strip in front of my childhood friend so he can use my body as a blank canvas. No, I don’t want to stand naked while my first, and only, and secret crush inspects and paints and touches my bare skin. Sang-woo wants to run and hide. Or maybe flee the country and change his name.
But Gi-hun is beaming at him, eyes sparkling, hands pressed together in endearingly hopeful anticipation, and the warm, effervescent feeling in Sang-woo’s chest bubbles out of his mouth in the form of words, “No, yeah, I’d love to! Not weird at all, I’m excited. To see your art. Yes. Let’s do it. The… the painting, I mean.”
Christ, pull it together, loser, he mentally chastises himself and says a silent prayer that the paint is sweat-proof as he wipes his clammy palms on his pants.
—
It’s not really as bad as he feared, once they get started. Gi-hun chooses his back as the canvas; Sang-woo is pleased with the decision, relieved that they won’t spend six hours face-to-face as he feels a flush rise in his cheeks at the first touch of Gi-hun’s hand.
It’s soothing, after a while. He sits on a cushioned barstool in a sunlit corner of the studio, the beams through the window warming his bare skin. The smooth strokes of the paintbrush along over his back tickle at first, but the sensation soon morphs into a pleasant, gentle stroke. Soft, warm puffs of breath ghost over the back of his neck when Gi-hun leans in close, and he makes quiet, thoughtful little sounds as he works. The sensations and sounds lull Sang-woo into a trance-like state, where his mind drifts and time passes unnoticed.
Unfortunately, time isn’t the only thing that goes unnoticed.
“Sang-woo? Hey? You ok?”
A gentle poke to his shoulder breaks the spell, and he shakes his head to clear it. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Yeah, what did you say?”
“I asked if you wanted to take a break. You’ve been sitting here still for hours, I thought maybe your muscles could use a stretch. How about a glass of w-” Gi-hun pauses mid-word as he circles to stand in front of Sang-woo. His eyes go comically large for a fraction of a second before he turns toward the kitchen and clears his throat, “Sorry, um, A glass of water? You thirsty?”
Something’s wrong. What is it? Think Sang-woo, damnit! He shifts, ever so slightly, on the stool so his eyes can follow Gi-hun into the next room, and he feels it. A familiar heaviness, an ache, deep in his chest… and between his legs. Mortified, praying to every deity he can think of, please no, he glances down to see his bare cock, flushed and very, very erect.
Yes, definitely time to flee the country and change his name.
Gi-hun returns with a glass of water, holding it out for Sang-woo and very intentionally not looking down toward their hands when Sang-woo accepts it.
“Hyung,” his voice cracks, and he takes a sip of the water to wet his throat, “… oh my god, I’m sorry--” Sang-woo starts to babble, but Gi-hun cuts him off.
“It’s ok. Really. It happens to a lot of the guys I paint. It goes away once your body catches up with your mind and realizes there’s nothing, um, sexual going on,” he pauses to laugh, but it's too loud and high-pitched to be genuine, “do you want to stop? Or you can… uh, put your bottoms back on? I can see if I can modify the design to stay higher up on your—”
“No. No, I don’t want you to have to change anything. It’s… I’m fine. Please, keep going.”
It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. IT’S FINE.
They continue as before. Or Gi-hun does. Sang-woo doesn’t dare allow himself to relax again. Instead, he channels his mental energy south, willing away his erection with every ounce of strength he can dredge up. The paint strokes along his back are still soothing, Gi-hun’s breath tickling his neck is still soft and warm, the small sounds Gi-hun makes as he works are perhaps even more charming than before, but Sang-woo doesn’t allow it to enthrall him again. It’s a grievous struggle, and by the time Gi-hun sets down his paints, Sang-woo’s nearly bitten through the inside of his cheek. His dick, thankfully, is soft.
“I just need to photograph it, then we’re done,” Gi-hun says, snapping several dozen shots from various distances and angles.
As soon as the camera goes back into its case, Sang-woo hops off the stool and pulls on his sweats. He’s halfway to the door before he remembers his shirt and turns back to look for it.
“You’re leaving?” Gi-hun asks, watching him, “I was going to ask if you wanted to, I don't know, grab a drink or something? Catch up? I can’t really talk while I’m painting, but I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to.”
Sang-woo spots his t-shirt slung over the back of a chair and pulls it over his head as he answers, “Uh, yeah. I’d love to. Not today, though. I have to… I have homework. Papers to write. You know.”
Gi-hun deflates a little, but he smiles at him, “Same old Sang-woo. School and studying first, right? Here, let me at least pay you.” Gi-hun takes Sang-woo’s hand and presses the bills into it, ₩480,000, and a small index card, “And here’s the information about the exhibit. It’s in two weeks. You’ll come, right? I’d love it… I mean, it would mean a lot to me if you could come.”
Sang-woo takes the money and the card and pulls back quickly, before the feel of Gi-hun’s soft hands on his can derail him.
“Of course!” he calls out, over his shoulder, “I’ll see you there!” he promises on his way out the door, half intending to concoct some excuse for missing it when the day comes.
—
Just say you’re sick. Just say you have a big test. Or a date. Just don’t go.
This is what Sang-woo says to himself, all while he obsesses over what to wear to the art exhibit two weeks later.
Are jeans too casual? Is a tie too formal? Should I gel my hair? Or will it look like I’m trying too hard if I do?
Trying too hard to what?
Shit.
Sang-woo settles on dark wash jeans and a soft, lightweight sweater that clings to his arms just enough to flatter his biceps if he happens to flex them. He opts not to gel his hair, just in case.
The gallery is packed by the time Sang-woo arrives; it surprises him, although it shouldn’t, he realizes. Gi-hun has always been a talented artist. Why wouldn’t people flock to his exhibit? The room is almost too small for the crowd that’s gathered, and Sang-woo gets caught up in a vague queue of people snaking along the perimeter. Large, colorful prints line the walls, twelve in total, and Sang-woo strolls along with the group, pausing at each one.
The models are diverse. The images feature different sizes and skin tones, men and women, some showcasing scars or blemishes or freckles that are seamlessly worked into the art. The paintings are all of landscapes: snowy mountains, rocky shores, rolling green hills; under each is a placard with a title: Great Heights, Broken Waves, Gentle Repose. Sang-woo has spent very little time on the discipline of art appreciation, but he listens to the commentary of the others around him as they praise the prints.
“The art literalizes what we often speak of metaphorically— an external manifestation of our inner topography.”
“It reframes the body as the canvas of our experiences.”
“It’s haunting and subversive. The mind has its terrain, now that terrain has a body.”
Sang-woo scoffs internally at the pretentious language, but the message, the meaning behind it, makes perfect sense, and Gi-hun’s vision begins to solidify in his mind. People, labeled with a concrete and recognizable representation of the abstract feelings inside them. It’s beautiful, he thinks, and so very Gi-hun, who has always had an uncanny knack for looking right past people’s defenses and seeing the truth underneath.
What did he see in me? He wonders, suddenly and irrationally scared. He never even looked at the paint on his back, he realizes, so eager to rush out of the studio that he never stopped to look in the mirror, or even ask what it was. What landscape did Gi-hun see underneath my defenses?
As he continues through the room, seven prints, eight, nine, and doesn’t see his own image, his anxiety only intensifies. Had it been too ugly for the exhibit? Had something happened to the photographs? Was Gi-hun so offended by his body’s inappropriate response that he couldn’t bring himself to include him in the exhibit? By the time he nears the end, his mind is spiraling.
A large group congregates in front of the last print in the series, and Sang-woo has to stand on the tip of his toes to peer over their collective heads. His own head spins when he catches sight of it. It’s him. His back. Covered in a pastel sky, a gradient of pinks and blues and purples, dotted with wispy cotton-candy clouds. Reaching from opposite sides, one from his right shoulder, the other from his left hip, are two outstretched hands, fingertips just shy of contact. The card beneath it reads: Reaching Heaven.
“I believe it’s the artist’s self-portrait,” one woman says, “mirroring Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, but to portray his own role as creator.”
“Exactly!” Adds the man she’s speaking to, “And just like the other pieces subvert the internal-external dynamic, this subverts the heaven-earth dynamic. Oh, well done.”
Sang-woo’s eyes are glued to the image as he listens to their critique. No, he thinks somewhat absently, no, not that religious imagery. Not the "artist as God". Not from Gi-hun. He smiles, almost laughs; it’s comical how much Gi-hun would disagree with that interpretation of his art.
“Actually, this one isn’t about creation.” Gi-hun’s voice cuts through the murmurs of the crowd, and everyone turns toward him, silent. “The hands are reaching out, but never making contact. It’s representative of a desire for something just out of reach,” all eyes are on him, but Gi-hun’s are locked onto Sang-woo as he speaks, “something too vast and intimate to translate to a physical landscape. Only the sky is big enough to contain it. Only the heavens are a suitable landscape for such… yearning.”
A chorus of approving noises comes from the small crowd as it slowly disperses. Gi-hun beams, offers thanks to each person who stops to congratulate him on the way out, but Sang-woo is frozen in place, watching him, replaying his words over and over again in his mind.
Only a few stragglers remain near the exit door when Gi-hun finally approaches him. His voice is soft, almost shy, when he asks, “So what do you think?”
Sang-woo’s throat is dry, and he swallows with a loud click before speaking, “I… I had no idea how talented you are, Gi-hun. I knew you were good at art, remember from when we were kids. But this… these are amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Gi-hun laughs and claps his hand on Sang-woo’s shoulder, “Well if I was a betting man, I’d wager you don’t have enough experience with art exhibits to make a comparison. Thank you, though. But I meant this one, specifically,” he gestures toward the print in front of them, “you didn’t get to see it at the studio. Do you like it?”
“I— of course. It’s very nice. The colors are—”
“Sang-woo,” Gi-hun slides his hand off his shoulder and brushes the back of his fingers against Sang-woo’s.
“—are so vibrant. Like a sunset. And the hands, they look—”
“Sang-woo,” he repeats, lacing their fingers together, then, lower, a real whisper this time, “it’s not out of reach. I’m not out of reach.”
Sang-woo turns to face him at last, Gi-hun’s expression so tender and open that it momentarily overwhelms him.
“If you happen to be yearning, that is. I thought you should know… that it’s not just you,” he squeezes Sang-woo’s hand and draws him closer, “so if you want to get out of here… head back to my studio with me, maybe we could strip these clothes off of you again. And we see what happens next?”
All Sang-woo can do is nod.
—
They don’t talk as the taxi winds through the streets of Seoul. Sang-woo rests his head against the window, watching the world pass by in a blur of neon reflected off wet pavement. Gi-hun sits on the opposite side, his hand resting in the middle seat between them, an invitation Sang-woo can’t bring himself to accept, even in the relative seclusion of the dim back seat. His mind reels, bouncing from one train of thought to the next, but returning, each time, to the track they’re on now, the one that leads back to Gi-hun's studio, and the terrifying pull of “what happens next”.
Gi-hun doesn’t take his hand again, not in the taxi, not when they exit it, not when he unlocks the heavy aluminum door and ushers him inside, not when he offers him a glass of soju and gestures to the cushioned barstool. But with every action, he reaches, leaving the invitation open.
“Could I paint on you again? You can say no, I won’t be upset. Just feeling… inspired.”
Sang-woo nods again, still not trusting himself to speak.
“Shoulders, I think, will be perfect for what I have in mind. If that’s ok. If you can remove the sweater? Just the sweater.”
Sang-woo does, pulls it wordlessly over his head, and adjusts his glasses and posture accordingly.
“Perfect.” Gi-hun hums behind him, already lining up his supplies.
Sang-woo sips the soju. He wants to gulp it. To drink it down and ask for another. And another, until his courage finds him. But somehow the fear of making a fool of himself still looms larger than the fear of doing nothing at all, so he sips.
The sensations are the same as before— the swooping caress of the brushstrokes, the warmth of Gi-hun’s breath tickling the fine hairs on the back of his neck, the hmms and hums and ahhs that Gi-hun makes as he creates. Sang-woo’s eyes drift shut, lulled again by the hypnotic mix of touch and sound. Gi-hun leans toward him more, closer than he had the first time, Sang-woo can sense it without seeing.
“Done,” comes a whisper from just beside his ear, "would you like to see?”
Sang-woo hums an affirmative noise. Gi-hun takes him by the crook of his elbow, firm but gentle, and leads him to a folding mirror, adjusting the hinges until Sang-woo can see the image drawn between his shoulders: a cityscape. Low buildings, winding alleyways, hues of muted yellow and red, familiar…
“Ssangmun-dong?” he asks, speaking for the first time since his floundering critique of Gi-hun’s work at the gallery hours earlier.
“Ssangmun-dong,” Gi-hun repeats, making eye contact through their reflections in the mirror, “home.”
Sang-woo turns toward him, then, fully, bodies parallel to one another, faces a hair’s breadth apart. Gi-hun’s eyes search his own, brows raised in question, and Sang-woo gives the only answer he can.
The first touch of lips is feather light, a brush of skin so soft, it could almost be imagined, if not for the way the world folds in on him. The second touch is more forceful, Sang-woo’s lips parting just enough to allow a taste of Gi-hun’s— warm and spicy. After that, Gi-hun presses close to him, taking Sang-woo’s head between his hands and angling it to deepen the kiss, and a wave of pleasure so sharp and sudden that it almost hurts washes over him. Sang-woo is happy to let Gi-hun take the lead, to let him guide them back to the barstool and press Sang-woo back onto it. Gi-hun slides closer as he does, pushing his hips into the space between Sang-woo’s knees.
“Happened again?” Gi-hun asks, both playful and lewd, as his hand ghosts over the outline of Sang-woo’s erection.
”How did you know?” Sang-woo has to ask before it goes any further, “How did you know I was… yearning ?” It’s not a word Cho Sang-woo would think to use, not in a million years, but ever since Gi-hun had said it, he knew it was the only word that fit.
“Because I was too,” he answers, resting his hands on Sang-woo’s hips and leaning in for a brief kiss, “since we were kids,” kiss, “since forever,” kiss, “you never knew?”
Sang-woo reaches for him, now, finally, arms wrapping around Gi-hun’s narrow waist. One hand slides up to card through the soft, damp curls at the nape of Gi-hun’s neck, the other slides lower, skimming over the modest swell of his ass.
“Hyung…” he says, like it’s an answer, “can we…?” He stops himself there, not sure how or what to ask. Too many questions cloud his mind. What will people think? Will my job prospects be affected? Will my mom disown me? Will it ruin our friendship? His fears and doubts all stay buried inside, but Gi-hun, as always, sees them anyway.
“Of course we can,” Gi-hun answers, kissing him again, hard and deep and perfect, until every uncertainty is driven from his mind, “we are.”