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-And they say a picture is worth a thousand words but yours is worth so much more.-
•
The sun shone that day, light filtering in through the bay windows innocuously just like the many summer days that had preceded it and really, nothing should have been different because nobody in the world would pay attention to their story, no matter how short-lived, how fleeting or how tragic. People like a good story but theirs is one of afternoons passed in nothingness. Of conversations that could have meant nothing and everything all at once and pictures taken that would go on to be the only thing to preserve it.
Their story is one of having loved, learned and lost and it's told almost entirely through pictures.
•
He takes photographs for a living, though the line between hobby and work has blurred so badly that he can no longer distinguish why exactly he does it. Countless days blur into one, becoming a vicious cycle of portraits, family photos and small setups that catch his eye enough to warrant taking out his camera and recording it in immortality. It's tiresome and repetitive but it's all he knows.
Hansol doen't know how much difference it can make to have a muse until he sees Nakamoto Yuta for the very first time.
It's been a particularly bad day for pictures, the clouds stubbornly hanging low in the overcast version of a frown so he makes the wise decision to keep his camera safely in its protective case, lest it be damaged by the impromptu rainstorm that's been hanging in the air for several hours. Rushing, he thinks of nothing but the upcoming photoshoot and exhibition that's coming up in two weeks and how he has absolutely no material for it.
Of course he has photos, in fact, he has piles upon piles of photos, each meticulously taken with just the right contrast and lighting but they all seem to lack something. It's just one element and although he can pinpoint where he's lacking, Hansol is never able to put it into words, a fact that he constantly broods over to the point of insomnia on occasion.
He arrives at his destination just shy of noon and despite it being practically peak hours, the quaint little café id almost empty, the seats vacant save for a few college students that are struggling to finish essays on time and the owner Johnny, an old friend of Hansol's, who's puttering about behind the counter.
Johnny looks up, waving with a dishcloth that's still in his hand when the tinkling bells above the door signal Hansol's entrance and without a word, he turns and begins making his usual order, knowing that the older will make his way to the his usual table in the corner without having to watch. Hansol is a regular, he comes to the café when his inspiration has run dry (which happens more and more frequently as the days slip by.) There's something about the soft hum of piano melodies, accompanied by quiet chatter and the serene atmosphere that always draws him back.
Even today,with the overcast skies and his dreary start, his mood has unknowingly lifted since he'd arrived. The heavy load he's been carrying on his shoulders feels significantly lighter while leaning back in the off-white chair and quietly, his mind drifts to a standstill, blissfully empty of every worry even if just for a while.
It's at that point that Hansol first lays eyes on his muse.
Two tables away is a scene that makes Hansol's fingers itch for his camera and the urge is so strong that he doesn't realise that he's been staring until Johnny nudges his shoulder after setting his drink on the table and receiving no reaction
"He's cute, right?" The words hold a teasing lilt but Hansol is oblivious, his mind fully focused on the person that sits just beyond Johnny's shoulder.
"He's perfect," and in that moment, he really couldn't care less how his words are being misread because for the first time in his life, Ji Hansol understands.
As he grew up his passion for photography had become evident in the way he'd take candid photos on his mother's phone or a disposable camera that was left for the trash and they'd show up with surprising clarity. When he was in sixth grade his father had entered one of his photos into a magazine contest and he'd placed within the top ten and it was then that Hansol received his first proper camera.
But there was always something that stopped him from actively pursuing a career in photography and it all came down to a very simple question that he'd never found a suitable answer for.
'What's your muse? What inspires you to take such insightful pictures?'
The concept was foreign to Hansol. In his mind, the only thing required to take good photos was a good eye for arrangement and beauty and how the two coincided to make picturesque moments. Never in his life had he considered the use of one specific object or person that could drive his will and inspire him to just photograph, without having to think, but now, it took less than a second for everything to fall in to place. Like he'd found the final puzzle piece after searching through the pile thousands of times for one that was just the right shape.
Moving at a thousand miles a minute, his mind struggles to comprehend how right it suddenly feels.
The scene in question is similar to things he wouldn't have even considered in the past. The lighting is too weak, the table arrangement to plain and the subject too uninteresting but Hansol can't bring himself to tear his eyes away because everything about it screams perfection.
Two tables away sits a boy, maybe slightly younger than Hansol himself but his side profile makes it near impossible to make an accurate guess. He seems to stare ahead, captivated by the nothingness that lays before him even as his eyes are almost unseeing. Dainty hands are wrapped around whatever his drink of choice is although it's purpose seems lost on him as the volume in the cup never decreases and the too-long sleeves of his sweater are creased, likely from being pushed up in vain one too many times.
The very air around him is sad.
If this boy were a painting he'd be a subdued swirl of greys and deep blues, threatening to be overtaken by the overwhelming mass of black that loomed over the remaining colour like an impending typhoon. It would be a beautiful panting. Beautifully sad but beautiful none the less, it could hang in the Louvre and not look out of place.
He's seems to curl in on himself as if he's trying to make himself invisible so that the world will just pass him by but there's no way that Hansol's eye can miss him because every tiny movement snaps his attention straight back.
It's a little sad.
Hansol leaves that day with a single picture and no name but that doesn't matter because he hopes this won't be the last time they meet.
It's a candid shot of warms hands on a coffee mug, curled around it's warmth and it's the first picture Hansol treasures in a long time.
•
There first encounter is sooner than Hansol could have anticipated and it doesn't play out the way it did in his head.
In fact, he'd dropped into the café in a hurry that day because Taeil had asked him to pass on a message to Johnny and he'd already been running late for a prior engagement. He'd been fully prepared to apologise and be on his way when pale hands had gripped his arm to steady the other and warmth had blossomed at the touch.
"It's fine, I'm Nakamoto Yuta." His Korean is good but the accent is there although Hansol can't pinpoint exactly what it is. He's too busy revelling at how well the name suits the face and he probably stares for too long to be considered normal but Yuta doesn't mention it.
"Sorry, for crashing into you that is. Can I buy you coffee to make up for it?" The words are out of his mouth before he can properly think them through but it's not a hard choice when he decides that his appointment at the studio can be rescheduled through a few phone calls and apologies.
"I'd like that," it's just three words, a common saying but they make Hansol grin like a fool as he leads them to a table and goes to order.
That day he learns that Yuta is 21 and although he would have liked to study music, he never went to college.
He learns that he feels the most comfortable when he's drowning in oversized sweaters and he learns that Yuta likes to keep to himself because that's what he's used to.
Most importantly, he learns that Yuta is a good listener because he never once interrupts Hansol's rant about photography despite the fact that he ends up looking lost more than once.
Hansol leaves with a second picture, this time it's of a soft grey sweater draped over lithe shoulders and even though the the lighting is poor and the angle isn't right, it joins the other one on the board.
For the first time in what feels like forever, Hansol wants to take more pictures of a single subject because it's impossible to capture perfection in one frame.
•
"You're my muse."
Hansol tells Yuta about his upcoming exhibition three weeks after they meet on a Saturday over iced tea and cheesecake.
The smaller boy first reacts by stiffening, his face automatically falling into a frown and Hansol worries that he's said something wrong because Yuta had stopped shutting him out weeks ago.
The awkward silence that develops is quickly broken by a crash which is shortly followed by the anxious quick-fire apologies of Mark, the new part time waiter that Johnny hired last week.
Mark goes to the same college as Hansol and although they don't talk much, Hansol often sees him around campus with another boy and his guitar. Johnny laughs off the mishap, telling Mark to clean up quickly and get back to serving customers despite the fact that Hansol and Yours are the only other people there.
"Your muse... but I'm not special or interesting." Yuta's words are quiet and Hansol isn't sure whether he was supposed to hear them so he delays his response slightly. He wants to immediately tell the Japanese boy how wrong he is but he doesn't know how to put it into words so he bites his lip and looks up through his eyelashes instead.
"You're everything."
And even as he says them, Hansol realises that the words are true. He's only known Yuta for a short time but that's all it took for the younger boy to become the centre of his universe.
Really, he isn't sure how he expects Yuta to react but the pain that flashes through his glassy eyes isn't one of the expected scenarios and he wants to rewind time and retract his statement because he shouldn't be causing that pain.
(Even so, he wants to photograph the depthless sorrow because he's sure that he's never seen so much emotion in someone's eyes before and he never tires of photographing Yuta.)
"I'm not," and his tone leaves no room for argument so their conversation ends there.
Hansol still leaves with a photograph of scuffed boots with neon orange laces and the edge of frayed jeans.
It's later added to his growing collection, next to the snapback that Johnny got him for his birthday and his first ever photography award from sixth grade.
•
Hansol wins second place at the exhibition, his photo of extended fingers reaching longingly for a kite string that only just eludes them becoming an instant hit with the audience.
Everyone else sees the aesthetically pleasing blend of colour and contrast against the strikingly dull backdrop. Hansol sees a hand that he never wants to let slip from his grasp. He's glad that he places highly but he's frustrated that nobidy else sees it for what it is.
Yuta congratulates him on his win and the way his cheeks flush when he's shown the photograph makes Hansol's fingers itch, but not for his camera, this time he finds himself wanting to take Yuta into his arms and make sure that everything is okay on his world.
It's a feeling that he's been ignoring until now, blatantly dismissing possible feelings and using photography as a scapegoat but the excuse is weak and both Johnny and Mark's friend Donghyuck (who also frequents the café now) have called him out on it.
It's not only for his own sake. Whenever Hansol tries to direct the conversation towards Yuta, the younger either smoothly redirects it or outright changes the subject and it doesn't take long for Hansol to start suspecting there's something he's not being told.
"Technically, it was you that won." Hansol suggests, fighting back a grin at the way Yuta's eyes light up with childlike joy.
"I never thought I'd get the chance--" Yuta stops speaking mid-sentence, his eyes widening and mouth clamping shut, only to be forced open again as his body is wracked with violent coughs. Hansol feels helpless but he offers a napkin from the table with a shaking hand and Yuta takes it gratefully, trying to discreetly whipe the hand that had been covering his mouth.
He isn't fast enough and Hansol sees the speckled blood but the panicked look in Yuta's eyes convinces him to stay quiet because the younger boy looks like he's ready to run at any second.
It's all fall naught every falls apart just seconds later.
Yuta's eyes roll back into his head and he slumps forward, too fast for Hansol to catch him as his head collides with the table.
He calls for Johnny because he's so panicked that he can't remember any of the basic first aid training that he's received. Both him and Mark come running and Johnny begins giving orders in a calm voice, trying to assess the situation by asking Hansol questions about what happened.
But he doesn't know, it all happened too fast and he doesn't really know any information about Yuta that could be of use sans his age and full name.
Hansol spends the whole time while they're waiting for the ambulance alternating between panic and a scary state of calm in which he doesn't talk at all.
Needless to say, he doesn't take any pictures that day but too many of them are ingrained in his memory.
It's the first time he despises the concept of photography.
•
Yuta's dying. There's a technical name for it he's sure but he isn't able to take in much of what he doctors say because that same phrase keeps repeating in his head. They say that Yuta already knows, he's been sick since he was a kid and hisvown condition would come as no surprise to him.
Hansol thinks back over every memory, from that first day in the café when the skies forecast pain and sadness to the day that they ran along the beach chasing the kite like it was their dreams and they didn't want it to slip through their fingers.
Knowing that Yuta has been sick through every experience changes his outlook significantly.
The way that the younger would become short of breathe but force a smile through Hansol's worried glances and the way that he would often state into nothingness as if he were deep in thought but also not present entirely.
He wishes that Yuta had told him but he supposed that Yuta's every attempt to divert his attention away from himself was a subtle way of warning him.
Blankly, he wonders if he's more angry with himself for not realising or at Yuta for keeping it from him.
In the end he decides that there's no room or time for anger because time has become limited.
It's in that moment he makes the decision to stop living behind his camera and start getting to know the real Nakamoto Yuta.
•
Yuta isn't happy too see him when he wakes, eyebrows furrowing even as he weakly tries to pull himself into a sitting position. Hansol figures that he's upset because his secret has been revealed.
"Sorry--" he croaks, turning his face down but Hansol can see the way his eyes water and everything that he is screams to wipe them away and wrap Yuta in protective layers so that the world can't reach him. He finds himself wishing that the smaller boy had been dealt a better hand in life because he's been at a disadvantage from the start and it isn't fair.
"That's the first thing you ever said to me, you know?" It's a weak attempt at steering the conversation away from the elephant in the room but Hansol sees Yuta's eyes brighten with gratitude and he knows he's made the right decision.
"I'm really sorry this time though. I wanted to tell you but you just got happier and happier from the first day I met you and I couldn't bare to tear that away from you."
Hansol's throat is dry and anything he wants to say is stuck along with the tears that threaten to choke him because he's never felt this way before and he knows that he's realised too late and the rug is going to be ripped out from under his feet soon.
"I'm sorry too, for so many things and for not being enough..." He trails off, his voice thick with the tears that he refuses to let fall. There are so many things he wants to say but none of them important enough to take up the remaining time.
"There's still time," it's barely a whisper and it's comes out more like he's begging than assuring and the words hang in the air, static and formless.
"But it's not enough."
Hansol does take Yuta in his arms then because the younger boy is crying in earnest, hands clenched around the too-white sheets as his body shakes with the force of restrained sobs.
Once upon a time he would have thought that the sadness was beautiful, a work of art but now he wants nothing more than take it all onto himself.
Seeing Yuta fall apart at the seams is terrifying and Hansol's own tears fall as he tries his hardest to hold them both together.
•
The very last picture that Hansol takes is of two hands twined together. One is tan while the other is so pale that it's almost translucent. In the picture their hold looks unbreakable but the IV drip that leads out of the frame tells a different story.
He places it on top of the rest in a box and stares for a moment before replacing the cardboard lid.
He can hide the pictures but the memories will never leave him as far away as he goes and he hopes that wherever Yuta is now, he remembers the good times over the bad.
Hansol doesn't take anymore pictures.