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At last, he can relax. The thought has been following Chan all day. He doesn't even wait for the front door to slam shut before collapsing onto the bed with a long groan, as though shedding the tension of the entire working day. But it doesn't help: his chest has long been rising and falling mechanically, as though all that breathing were for nothing.
He never complained to anyone about being tired. After all, this is Rome.
Rome, with its scorching sun that practically melts his thoughts, where not even the water lovingly offered by familiar hands can save him.
Rome, with its breathtaking sunsets that he loves to watch in silence, sitting together on the terrace of that open-air restaurant, hand in hand.
Rome, with its winding little streets and stone walls, where his back knows every jutting edge by heart. Maybe the next day, it never once said thank you. But what does that matter when he's pressed against the wall by a strong body, his lips crushed in a kiss that tastes of whiskey and a little bit of longing?
Rome, with its damp sheets and feverish whispers that drive him mad, their notes of lust and passion intertwining until he wants to dissolve into them.
This is Rome. This is their place. And lying here alone, in this hotel room, feels so terribly wrong.
Memories scatter before him like cards spilling from a deck. Chan turns them over in his mind, one by one.
And there it is.
They broke up here, too. In Rome.
Two idols at the peak of their careers. No free time, but a hundred questions and problems that needed solving here and now. They needed each other. Needed each other like air. But the people around them needed them just as much.
Back then, everyone seemed determined to tear them apart. Tenderness and romance increasingly gave way to jealousy and mutual reproaches. Trying to make up for all the time they'd lost, they seemed to grow into each other whenever they managed to meet.
And that was the beginning of the end.
Chan spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, replaying and analyzing everything, reconstructing every moment of their relationship from the fragments, over and over again. But he never managed to prove Seungmin wrong. He can feel it, knows it somewhere deep in his subconscious: there's a flaw here. Every internal life-support system is screaming that something is wrong.
But Chan is a terrible engineer. He can't find enough reasons to explain exactly what went wrong.
Their last conversation. That's the card that wounds him even without having to touch it.
"Have you ever heard of a performance where two people press their lips together and breathe each other's air? There's no fresh oxygen coming in, and gradually, it's replaced by carbon dioxide. Eventually, both of them lose consciousness."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Chan lifts his head from his phone, which is vibrating incessantly with incoming messages. The coldness and emptiness in the face he knows so well leave him stunned.
"This isn't love. We're killing each other. Taking away each other's air, and losing our own in the process." Seungmin no longer looks at him, as though he can't bear to meet his eyes. "We need to break up. For the sake of our future."
Gasping, Chan surfaces from the memory. It still hurts. Especially today.
Or maybe he should just forget all the logic and reasons?
His hand reaches for his phone on autopilot. Without thinking, Chan opens his contacts, only to stop himself at the last second, his finger hovering over the call button. He won't hear that familiar voice now. Seungmin won't pick up. Just like all the times before. Longing tears him apart from the inside. Chan decides to rely on the thing he's always done best. Words.
Hey.
Every year, this day feels different, but it's always the same. Always filled with love. I had a modeling shoot in a garden today, and it reminded me of that time we snuck away from the concert venue together and took the next day off. We walked around the fair and went on rides at that traveling amusement park. Remember that little grove of mandarin trees they'd set up right among the carousels, with all the trees growing in tubs? You called them overgrown saplings.
Or that time we kissed at sunset on the observation deck while rain poured down the windows. It felt as though the rest of the world didn't exist, as though there was only you and me. By the way, that kiss tasted like mandarin sorbet—the kind you made me buy after that fair every time we went out together. And the next day, we both got sick because we'd been sitting in the draft. It was epic. But that day is one of my favorites.
And what about the time you sneaked into my dressing room and scared the absolute shit out of me with your party poppers? I spent another week trying to wash the glitter out of my hair.
It's so strange to be here without you today. It's as if I'm still overflowing with love, but there's no one to give it to. I feel like I've lost my way and ended up standing on the roadside, surrounded by a freezing, damp fog. And I would give anything to hear you call my name. The sound of your voice is home.
But now I'm homeless. You know what I mean. You don't answer my messages, and I don't blame you. I really don't. I'll give you all the time in the world, as much as you need, as long as you're happy.
But I miss you so much. Your laughter, your shining eyes. No one else throws their legs over me in their sleep anymore. You know, it's absolutely impossible to sleep when nobody's pinning you down with their weight. I used to hate how energetic you were in the mornings, but now I wake up at dawn and stupidly wait for the key to turn in the lock, for you to come home from your run. If I'd known back then that you'd give us so little time, I'd have run every single meter of that park with you.
I'm not asking you to forget everything I've done or all the things I've said, or to love me unconditionally. I'm asking you to give me a chance to explain why I acted the way I did.
The thought that you might be blaming yourself literally causes me physical pain. I was the one who got scared back then. But the future I face without you frightens me even more. Let me show you how much you really mean to me.
By the way, Seungmin. My fridge still always has mandarin sorbet in it. Sometimes I absolutely demolish it, as you know—diets are exhausting. But I always buy more. For you.
Happy anniversary, Seungmin.
Whatever you decide, I love you.
Which words matter? Any words at all, or only the ones spoken at the right time? His phone hits the headboard with a soft thud. Chan is tired. But he's never complained to anyone.
Chan wakes with a start, as though someone has jolted him. He's alone. The realization no longer hits him like a shock wave. He's getting used to living with this pain. Silence presses against his ears. It's already light outside, and his hotel is just a stone's throw from the Spanish Steps. But Chan feels as though he's trapped in a vacuum, somewhere the sounds of the street and the chatter of tourists can't reach. It's time to admit that, lately, he's been disconnecting from reality more and more often, drifting somewhere inside himself in search of that ever-elusive state of zen.
Working on new projects has always been the fire that satisfies his appetite for all the pleasures and vices of performance. But there's a catch: when the work is over, all that's left is a scorched-out interior and emotional overload. Still, it's what keeps him going now.
His hand reaches for his phone on autopilot—to check the time, his emails, his messages. Then he needs to get up, take a shower... His heart stumbles when he sees the name on the screen.
Seungmin + 3 incoming messages
His fingers glide across the screen, tapping the translucent notification window. A video. Seungmin has always known how to surprise him, and loved doing it. With actions, words, emotions. He always seemed to understand Chan instinctively, as though he'd tuned himself to Chan's emotional wavelength and could hear even the slightest fluctuations. How he did it had always been a mystery to Chan. Chan knew how to use words. Seungmin knew how to use music.
And now, sitting in an armchair with his guitar, Seungmin looks straight into the camera as though he's not simply admiring his own reflection on the screen, but singing directly to Chan. As though Chan were right there beside him, sitting opposite him. Chan presses Play. The guitar melody is unmistakably familiar.
Measuring a summer's day
I only find it slips away to grey
The hours, they bring me pain
Chan bites his lip, trying to hold back a smile. His beloved Led Zeppelin. Seungmin knows. Of course he knows.
Tangerine, Tangerine,
Living reflections from a dream
Chan dies and comes back to life again and again, watching Seungmin's grown-out fringe and the fingers fluttering over the strings.
I was his love, he was my king,
And now a thousand years between.
A smile spreads across Chan's lips before he can stop it when he hears the liberties Seungmin has taken with the lyrics.
Thinking how it used to be,
Does he still remember times like these?
To think of us again?
And I do.
God, how he loves him. It's not a new thought, but every time it comes to him, it feels like a revelation. The song ends far too abruptly, and the shy smile that follows is blinding. Chan closes the video, ready to type a reply, and sees the message beneath it.
Happy anniversary. Call me when you get home.
He scrolls down to read the next message.
By the way, your ass is spectacular enough as it is. Don't you dare touch my ice cream.
And, Chan? I love you, too.
The final chords are still ringing in his ears, but the noise of the street gradually swells, as though someone is slowly turning up the volume. At last, Chan can breathe in deeply again.
This is Rome.The city where he lost everything and found it all again.