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I sometimes think that people’s hearts are like deep wells. Nobody knows what’s at the bottom. All you can do is imagine by what comes floating to the surface every once in a while. —Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman, Haruki Murakami
Jeon Wonwoo is halfway through a martini when Minghao sees him sitting alone at the hotel bar.
Dry, two olives. It’s not the type of drink Minghao would expect Jeon Wonwoo to order. Not that he knows Wonwoo well—it’s been years since they last saw each other. Summer after the first year of university, maybe. It’s a surprise to run into him here, in the bowels of a five-star hotel in Tokyo, but it’s a bigger surprise that Minghao recognized him at all.
He looks the same. Dark, curly hair falling over round glasses. A jawline like the hilt of a sword.
Wonwoo looks up and makes eye contact. His face becomes a mirror. Surprise, recognition. Warm pleasure.
They sit together, obviously. It would be awkward to avoid each other and Minghao is secretly glad for the opportunity to speak Korean after a week of flatlining in English. He sticks his hands into his pockets and orders himself a matching martini and says, “Jeon Wonwoo, how have you been?”
“I’m doing well,” Wonwoo says, and his dress certainly reflects that. He’s wearing a suit jacket with a classy crimson tie. “How about yourself?”
Minghao talks about graduating from Yonsei and his work—his art. Wonwoo probably doesn’t remember it, but Minghao got his start during the Fine Arts elective held every afternoon in a dusty, sun-drenched attic above the main office of their high school. From his seat by the window, Minghao used to watch Wonwoo ditch class on his skateboard.
Memories from high school are murky now. But there are three things Minghao knows for sure: Jeon Wonwoo was a serial class-skipper. Jeon Wonwoo had the highest math grades in his year. And Jeon Wonwoo was best known for dating the most popular guy in school.
It’s that last one he’s dying to hear about.
“Today was the final day of my exhibition.” Minghao sips his martini and wishes it were just tea. “Back to Seoul tomorrow.”
Wonwoo sucks on his teeth. “I envy you. I’m here until Friday. My company is participating in a tech conference in Akihabara and I’ve had to give a dozen mini-presentations on why it’s important to invest in green energy.”
“Sounds like important work.”
“I mostly just do the coding.” Wonwoo smiles. His eyes drop to his glass.
“Still.” Minghao returns the smile. “It’s admirable. You’re making the world a better place.”
“Hope so.”
Wonwoo’s quieter than he seems. Shy, maybe. There’s a sense of anticipation in the broad line of his shoulders. Like he’s on the brink of changing the subject but hasn’t, a man peeking over the edge of a cliff before a jump.
It piques Minghao’s interest. Many things about Jeon Wonwoo pique his interest, if he’s being honest. The face. The history.
“It’s nice to see you,” Minghao says after a comfortable pause. “Feels so unlikely—here, of all places! An Anyang Diamonds reunion.”
“It feels like fate, actually.” Wonwoo laughs a little. He drains his glass and orders another. “You know, I’ve wanted to catch up with someone from high school for so long.”
“Oh!”
“Yeah. There’s a secret I want to tell, and it doesn’t matter much anymore, but I’ve been carrying it alone for so long that it’s started to weigh on me. Only someone else from Anyang can understand. Do you—would you mind, Minghao?”
Hearing his name from Wonwoo’s mouth sends a hot thrill up his spine. He wasn’t sure, at first, if Wonwoo recalled anything beyond his familiar face. But Minghao is known, here. He’s remembered. The intimacy delights him.
He leans an elbow on the bar and tilts his stool to give Wonwoo his full attention. “I wouldn’t mind at all. If it will make you feel better, please talk about it.”
“I won’t take much of your time,” Wonwoo assures him politely. “I assume you remember Kim Mingyu?”
Minghao hides his smile in his glass. “I do.”
Jeon Wonwoo and Kim Mingyu dated for three years. They were inescapable silhouettes on campus, because Mingyu was involved in every activity under the sun and Wonwoo revolved around him like he was the sun. Even if you didn’t give a shit about popularity or class ranks or star athletes—you knew these two.
Part of it was mystery. Wonwoo didn’t seem to have many other friends. He was a wraith in the hallways, a shadow behind Mingyu at every assembly. If not for the starry-eyed attention he paid to Mingyu, he surely would’ve been labeled a loner. A slacker.
Their relationship made no sense on paper, but they did everything together. Shared kimbap at a metal table near the library. Studied in the student council room. Sat hip-to-hip in the first bleacher at every football match. Held hands. Hugged.
One time, Minghao saw them kiss.
It was a rare day off from hagwon. School had ended hours ago and sunset was cutting through the trees like a buttery knife. Minghao had stayed late to finish a painting assignment and dick around in the empty studio before the janitors kicked him out.
To get home, he always crossed the grassy field behind campus and slipped through the chain-link gate in the far corner. Usually it was empty and dreamlike, a quiet space removed from traffic, bells, and the incessant noise of band practice.
The sky was sweltering that afternoon. Dry heat irritated Minghao’s nose and kept his head ducked toward the flaky, yellow grass as he crossed the field. He didn’t notice Mingyu and Wonwoo until he was almost on top of them, sitting against the fence under a wide umbrella as white as fresh snow. Mingyu’s hair was damp at the temples and falling out of its boyish coiffe.
They were absorbed in each other, as usual. Wonwoo’s uniform was unbuttoned and clung to his damp, bony elbows like a shawl. He held a plastic bowl filled with spears of sunlight in both hands—Mangoes! Fresh and soft and wildly out of season. Minghao’s mouth watered; he almost stopped in his tracks and begged for a piece, nevermind how he was barely acquainted with Wonwoo.
But then Mingyu scooped a triangular chunk of mango with three fingers and held it out to Wonwoo, who took it between his lips like a sacrament. When he finished chewing he held Mingyu by the chin and kissed him firmly. A smile broke across Mingyu’s face.
Between the long flesh of the mango, Mingyu’s dark eyes, and the sweat collecting in the dell of Minghao’s back—it became too much. A weird brew of guilt and jealousy rose like acid reflux in his chest. Minghao drew a shallow breath and looked away. Suddenly he hated them, loathed their soft happiness and their audacity to flaunt it publicly.
They didn’t even notice him walk by. He kept his eyes resolutely forward until the gate, the fence, the lovers, the mangoes, were all far behind. But Minghao rewound the scene later that night, in his pitch-black bedroom, imagining himself as Wonwoo, as the mango, as the fucking umbrella. Anything at all. He imagined a world where he mattered.
Memories fraught with emotion linger like a bad cough. As much as Minghao tried to cleanse himself of that jealous afternoon, it clung. He remembers the young and passionate Kim Mingyu—probably better than Wonwoo expects.
“Well, you might’ve heard that we broke up partway through university,” Wonwoo says now.
Minghao nods. “I did. What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’ll get to that. I’m sure you remember Mingyu was something of a Renaissance man on campus. Golden boy, teacher’s pet, tri-varsity athlete and student council president with impeccable grades. Basically perfect in every way.” A crooked smile grows on Wonwoo’s face. His voice is so neutral that it’s impossible to tell if he’s being sardonic or fond. Mostly, he just looks handsome.
Wonwoo continues, “His parents had high expectations, of course. They were never around except to lecture him about the tiniest mistakes—and god forbid his sister step out of line, because that would be Mingyu’s fault, too. It was a tough situation. He had trouble dealing with it.”
That, Minghao can imagine. He never spoke to Mingyu in high school. Perfect people aren’t very interesting, and Mingyu’s façade was so well-constructed that at first impression he seemed… boring. Pond shallow. Sure, he was beautiful, but he probably couldn’t hold a conversation.
At least, that’s what Minghao told himself at the time.
“We had a lot in common,” Wonwoo says. “Nobody took him seriously because they didn’t think he worked hard. Nobody took me seriously because I didn’t work hard.” He laughs a little. “I mean, I deserved that, but still. Mingyu was my first real friend. Being loved by him… there’s nothing like it.”
Minghao takes a sip of his drink so he doesn’t get misty-eyed. This must be Wonwoo’s third or fourth cocktail. Or, he’s simply desperate for a kind ear. He talks with the ease of someone who’s rehearsed this story in their head a hundred times. Someone who lives with one foot in the past.
“In retrospect,” Wonwoo continues, dangling a hand around his glass. “It makes a lot of sense why Mingyu was so focused on the future. He wanted out of Anyang and away from his parents. I don’t know what kind of rumors were spread about us. God, probably a ton. But if you heard anything about our sex life, I’m telling you right now that it wasn’t true.”
Minghao’s jaw unhooks and clatters onto the floor. He’s—stunned. This is not the direction he guessed the conversation would go. “I—” His heart flops like a fish. “I didn’t hear anything about that, no.”
“I’ll spare you the details,” Wonwoo says, noticing the awkward way Minghao is shifting on his stool. “But let’s just say… people were invested in our relationship. The boldest underclassmen asked us to our faces, once, after a footie match, about our preferences. Mingyu broke his nose.”
“Oh,” Minghao says faintly. A boa constrictor curls around his chest and squeezes. “Good. What an asshole.”
It’s no surprise he never heard about that altercation. His closest friends—his seniors, Wen Junhui and Kwon Soonyoung—avoided sporting events like they were deathly allergic. Unless it was dance. Or a competition of who could spit furthest from the roof of the library.
Obviously none of them were having sex in high school. Soonyoung had wanted to, badly enough to complain about it every day in the back of their Algebra class, his sweaty forehead resting dramatically on the desk.
One time Minghao had snapped back, “Look, I’ll fuck you if you’re that desperate. Just ask nicely.”
Soonyoung had shut up, alright. Minghao was half-smug and half-disappointed.
Now Wonwoo hesitates. He presses his mouth into a tense little line. “Sorry if this gets too personal. I promise, it’s—relevant to the story.”
“It’s okay!” Minghao says. “I won’t judge.”
He might be lying about the okay part. This doesn’t feel okay; it feels like he’s trespassing on a grave. But it’s too late. Wonwoo has opened Pandora’s box and he can’t seem to stop talking. Secrets are vomited out of the past in horrible clumps.
“The truth is,” Wonwoo continues. “We dated for three years and never had sex. It was Mingyu’s choice, and I respected that. He had a lot of different excuses. Too busy, too tired, too focused on school. It wasn’t because he didn’t love me. He had a very specific timeline in mind for intimacy, for how he wanted his life to go, and we just weren’t on par with that. It wasn’t personal.” Wonwoo drains his martini. His lip curls. “Of course it didn’t feel that way at seventeen.”
Minghao makes a humming noise he hopes is commiserative. The bartender senses a change in atmosphere and slides in with a towel tossed over her shoulder. Minghao signals for another martini.
Wonwoo doesn’t. His eyes are glassy and heavy-lidded. “There’s a sense that childhood friends will always know you best, don’t you think? No matter how much growing you do later—and I worried back then, that our relationship might not last forever. So I wanted Mingyu to know me. Really know me, like no one else could. Before it was over.”
When the bartender passes over another martini, three olives this time, Minghao downs half the drink in one go. Alcohol sits like a warm, heavy blanket in his gut. He wants to hide under it and escape the ramifications of this conversation. Because now he’s feeling nostalgic, too.
He remembers being seventeen and smoking cigarettes under the bleachers with Junhui on rainy days. The air was thick with moisture, the sidewalks transfigured into asphalt tightropes cordoned off by puddles. Droplets snuck through metal grates to slide like tiny ice cubes down the back of Minghao’s shirt.
Those were the only days they could get away with smoking; otherwise, Junhui’s mom would smell it and whap their skulls with the flat face of a sandal.
Junhui was the first person Minghao slept with. They had escaped into Junhui’s empty house after classes, drying their uniforms on the heater and lounging shirtless on the bed, licking the taste of tobacco from each others’ lips.
It was easy, back then, to kiss Junhui. They fell into the habit like alcoholism. Minghao had never kissed him—never even thought about it—until one day he tried it, liked it, and couldn’t stop. An experimentation turned addiction.
He was never sure if Junhui felt the same way. Wringing a sincere conversation out of Junhui was like catching mice with your bare feet. But he was the one to lead Minghao’s hands to his belt, and beneath it. He was the one to lay back and say, “Come here, Xiao Hao. I want to try this.”
Wonwoo sets down his glass too hard. The noise dispels Minghao’s memories; he crashes back into the present with a startled inhale. Where were they?
Childhood friends. Right.
“I think I know what you mean.” Minghao pops an olive into his mouth, watches the way Wonwoo watches his jaw move. “It’s hard to move on. There are parts of me that belong to my childhood friends.”
When SHINee plays on the radio, Minghao thinks of Soonyoung and the concerts they attended together. When he makes a pun at work and no one laughs, he thinks Chan used to teach me these jokes. When it rains he thinks of Junhui.
As he’s gotten older, he’s tried to recover that lost sense of community. But nothing binds people quite like youth.
Wonwoo smiles. “Exactly. Mingyu didn’t really understand that. He just wanted to grow up, didn’t care what he was losing. Who he was losing. But—he loved me, so he made me a promise. He said, Wonwoo-yah, I’ll sleep with you in seven years. No matter what.”
Minghao’s throat closes around the olive too early. He chokes a little, coughs until it goes down. It feels like a hard, painful lump moving past his heart.
Gently Wonwoo lays a hand on his knee. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Minghao’s face is hot enough to fry an egg. “Sorry, keep going.”
“Well, I never forgot about that promise, but I didn’t think he was serious. When he graduated he went off to Yonsei and I stayed in Anyang. Long distance was fine for a while. He’d come back and we’d kiss fully-clothed on the top bunk where my brother couldn’t see.” Wonwoo laughs.
By chance, Wonwoo’s eyes fix on Minghao’s watch; self-conscious, Minghao discreetly shoves his hand further into his pocket. Wonwoo’s palm stays warm and steady on his knee. Subconsciously they’ve shifted closer throughout the conversation. They probably look like close friends to an outsider.
Wonwoo continues, “But then his advisor said he needed a more well-rounded resume. So he took a photography elective and started getting into fine art.”
“Oh,” Minghao says softly. Oh. He can guess where the story goes now.
“Nothing changed. That’s the thing, he was still Mingyu, still spoke the same and dressed the same and covered his mouth when he laughed. But one night he came home for a long weekend and snuck into my bedroom and said—I remember this perfectly—Wonwoo, we should break up. We’re different people now. Like ten years of knowing each other was suddenly overshadowed by one painting class.”
Wonwoo’s hand flexes around his kneecap. He adds, “No offense, but fine art never made sense to me. It’s just colors and shapes. There aren’t even words. How can it lead to self-reflection? What did he discover in himself that I couldn’t see?”
Wonwoo hesitates like he’s hoping Minghao will jump in with an answer.
Minghao’s heart is living in his throat. It takes him a moment to think of what to say. “For me… a painting lets me express emotions I don’t necessarily know I have. When I’m in front of an easel, I let the mood guide me, and my thoughts will wander to topics I typically avoid thinking about. Things that make me afraid, or sad, or worried.”
He takes a shallow breath and continues. “Maybe Mingyu learned, through photography and painting and fashion, or whatever, what his priorities were. Based on how his thoughts wandered.”
Wonwoo’s hand falls away. His face is carefully blank. “Forgive me, I still don’t really get it. Sounds cold.”
“I don’t mean it that way,” Minghao says. “And I’m sure—I mean, Mingyu probably didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re right. He was kind about it. It’s funny that you mention fashion, actually, because that was definitely part of it, too. He did start dressing better after we broke up. I was really upset about everything. I locked him out of my life while trying to start over and soon enough we lost contact completely.”
Minghao supposes this is where the story ends, but he’s loath to say goodbye now. It feels like he and Wonwoo are more intimately connected than ever before, like if he turns back in his memories he will see Wonwoo lit anew, all of their mundane interactions swimming to the forefront of his heart in rosy hues. He sighs deeply and finishes the last of his martini. The bartender has been eyeing their corner for several minutes. She’d probably like to close out their tab and go home.
Wonwoo catches on and insists on paying for both of their drinks. Minghao puts up a good fight but ultimately loses to Wonwoo’s seniority and, apparently, the ridiculous state of his wallet. How fortunate that they’ve both done well since Anyang, that’s for sure.
They stand, and Minghao’s stomach flips when he realizes that Jeon Wonwoo is taller than him.
He’s always liked his men tall.
“Would you mind continuing this in my room?” Wonwoo asks, eyes bright. “There’s more to share, but it’s… delicate. I’d prefer to talk someplace with better privacy.”
Minghao feels his own eyebrows twitch with surprise. “I’d love to. Really, I had nothing planned except congee in bed.”
When Wonwoo smiles, really smiles, his nose scrunches up like a bunny. There’s a photo of him in the Grade 10 yearbook sitting next to Mingyu at a canned food drive where he’s laughing like that. Minghao knows the page number, could paint the photo right now if asked. The phrase easy on the eyes takes on a whole new meaning.
“In that case.” Wonwoo shrugs and leads the way to the elevator.
When Minghao was younger, most things made him unhappy.
No, that’s not right. Many things made him happy, but only the type of happiness that took more than it gave. The kind that got so big it left you feeling a little hollow afterwards, a little sad. Often the sadness lingered; the happiness was fleeting.
Maybe this was an individual phenomenon, or maybe everyone felt that way. He couldn’t tell, and he didn’t know how to ask. His parents certainly wouldn’t understand. Not when he had a roof over his head, three good meals a day, and hefty red envelopes every New Year.
Things simply felt out of reach. Even mundane activities like going to the movies, holing up in a noodle shop with friends, picking up a book of poetry. As soon as he finished going through the motions, the ecstasy was washed away by the same lonely aftertaste. He was young enough to get away with it—feeling lonely—but still, he couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t fucking stand it.
The only exceptions were making art and thinking about love.
Love! He knew exactly how he wanted it served: hot off the grill, honey-glazed, with garnishes of filial piety and shared hobbies. Romantic daydreams dragged him through school like the carrot dangling in front of the mule. He drifted through the months, watching couples in the hallways with their furtive PDA, and those in the mess hall who were braver—before they were scolded by teachers for inappropriate behavior.
Most of all, he watched Mingyu and Wonwoo.
Minghao had the most unbelievable crush on Kim Mingyu. “Fucking obsessed,” as Soonyoung would say. He never denied it. He was deep in the tumult of love.
In the mornings, he’d arrive at school thirty minutes before his first class in order to sit in the quad and pretend to listen to music while Kim Mingyu and the student government painted banners for upcoming school events. It was the only time Mingyu was guaranteed to be without Wonwoo. He never participated in the actual painting, just watched over his juniors and instructed them on what to write.
It was unbelievably sexy to Minghao, who’d always found himself attracted to people in charge. People who rolled up their uniform sleeves. People whose teeth caught on their lower lip when they laughed, who hugged their same-age friends with both arms, who made up funny little raps to pass the time. People who were Kim Mingyu.
Minghao used to imagine Mingyu talking to him like they were confidantes. Kissing him, interrupted by that wide smile. How lovely it would be.
Even when the bell rang and dismissed his immediate fantasies—Minghao didn’t experience that empty feeling afterwards. There was never really an end to this experience, because there was never really a beginning. It wasn’t real. That made it safe from melancholy.
So he gorged himself on those daydreams all the way to graduation.
Then one day he grew up, fell in love, realized it was nothing like what he imagined at all, got married anyway, and the tricky business of happiness didn’t seem to matter anymore because his dreams had come true. Right? The rest didn’t matter.
Wonwoo is staying in the penthouse suite.
Minghao should’ve anticipated this, but the extravagance takes his breath away. A vast staircase bisects the foyer. To one side is a dining area with a massive table of dark wood, to the other is a sitting room with floral-cushioned couches and the dangly ends of a chandelier blocking the window. The master bedroom, he assumes, is upstairs.
Strolling into the sitting room, Wonwoo turns over one shoulder. “Do you smoke?”
“No,” Minghao replies automatically. “Sorry, not anymore.”
They sit beside each other, just like at the bar, close enough for their arms to brush if Minghao leans over. Together they face one of the most expensive windows in all of Tokyo. Downtown spreads impassively below, twinkling like a galaxy in a snowglobe, the Tower it’s centerpiece.
It takes Minghao a moment to absorb all of this. Wonwoo must be able to sense it, because he waits patiently, a little smile on his mouth. Like he wanted this reaction.
Minghao adjusts his hands in his pockets. “So. There was more to the story?”
“Yes.” Wonwoo leans forward. “This is where it gets messy. See, Mingyu kept his promise. A few years ago, I got a call from an unknown number. If you still remember, he’d said. If you still want to know me, for old times’ sake. He asked me to meet him at an address in Gangnam.”
This feels wildly personal. Too personal. Minghao isn’t sure he should be hearing this, and his skin is frosting over with trepidation, but he hangs off Wonwoo’s every word.
Wonwoo continues, “Mingyu lived in a very nice high-rise apartment. He met me in the foyer, and he looked almost the same as he did in high school. I don’t know if you remember—the semester he dyed his hair walnut brown?”
“Uh huh,” Minghao answers numbly.
“Well, he had it like that again. Longer at the top. With a yappy little dog who tried to lick my face.” Wonwoo pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, glances at Minghao and then out towards the skyline. “There was a spouse in the picture, too, away for work at the time. Mingyu was wearing a ring. He wore it the whole time. But I think he turned down all the photos before I got there. I never saw their face.”
That’s a twist he didn’t expect. Minghao’s stomach lurches. The martinis are conducting a conga line through his gut now, and he has to focus hard on the glittery cityscape to stay present. He didn’t know Mingyu was this type of person. He didn’t know any of this.
“So,” he says, mouth dry. “You two…”
“We did. And it was great. I mean, by that time, I knew what I was doing, and so did he. I stayed the night and didn’t ask any questions and he kissed me like he still loved me.” Wonwoo ducked his head, that bittersweet little smile returning in full force. “The next morning he toasted me a bagel. I left for work, and that was that. We haven’t spoken since.”
“When exactly was this?”
“Oh, three years ago now. It was that summer we had a crazy heat wave in Seoul, if you remember.”
Minghao exhales heavily. It feels like a stone is squatting in his heart. “Wow.”
“Yeah.” Wonwoo scrubs a hand over his face. “Ah, I feel better already now that someone else knows.”
He reaches over and squeezes Minghao’s wrist. Without really thinking about it, Minghao thumbs off his own wedding ring before lifting his hand out of his pocket and squeezing back. The jewelry settles heavily into the fabric.
It would simply be awkward to field questions about his own marriage, he tells himself, in the wake of this conversation.
Wonwoo looks grateful for the support. His eyes are dark and expressive, much warmer than Minghao remembers. Maybe because he spent a lot of time imagining Wonwoo as his love rival in high school.
“Did it make you happy?” Minghao asks.
“At first… yeah. But it didn’t last. I felt worse after, all tied up in guilt and jealousy and regret. For a while I hated Mingyu and couldn’t figure out why. Sometimes I still hate him.”
Minghao nods. He rubs soothing circles over Wonwoo’s hand with his thumb. Doesn’t have a clue what to say. Shock has stalled his thoughts. “I guess that’s fair.”
“I just wanted him for so long, you know? And when you achieve your goals, or whatever, it feels really shitty afterwards. Like, that chapter of my life is permanently closed. I kept thinking, it’s happened and it’s over so now what? Where do I go from here? It was a little isolating.”
“I get that.” Minghao looks at the carpet. He can’t interrogate the way their hands are still clinging to each other, or how it makes him feel. “What did you decide?”
“I haven’t figured it out yet,” Wonwoo says. “But I think I can move on now that I’ve told the story.”
Wonwoo’s gaze gets heavier. It feels like a warm pressure on the side of Minghao’s face; instinctively, he looks up and they lock eyes.
“I hope so,” Minghao says softly. “Moving on from the past is hard. But everyone deserves to be happy, Wonwoo.”
Their faces are very close together. Wonwoo smells like gin and musk, and when his expression softens, the rest of the room fades away. Minghao’s heart is a jackhammer inside his chest.
It’s only fair, he thinks, as he leans in and kisses Jeon Wonwoo.
Wonwoo’s mouth is very soft. He kisses Minghao chastely, appropriately—but that’s not what Minghao wants. Not after all these years, not after what he just heard. He presses closer, a hand on Wonwoo’s ridiculously perfect jaw, and thinks about how he would like to be swallowed.
He licks into Wonwoo’s mouth, but he’s thinking about Kim Mingyu. About Junhui, who graduated and moved to Shanghai without a glance back. About Soonyoung, who flunked out of university and disappeared off social media. About Chan, who made it big on a stage that Minghao was never invited to see. About Mingyu, Mingyu, Mingyu.
It feels like more than fate that he and Wonwoo would meet here and have this conversation, dredge up old memories. It feels like a punishment.
Minghao seizes Wonwoo by the lapels of his suit and drags him upstairs, still connected at the mouth.
Afterwards, when the sweat is cooling on his forehead and he’s tucked into the wide expanse of Wonwoo’s chest… Minghao feels happy.
No, that’s not quite right. He feels sickly vindicated, like he won a strange and fucked up competition. It’s meaner than happiness. Maybe it will stay.
Minghao discreetly wipes his mouth and sits up. The red satin sheet pools around his waist, makes him look obscene. “I should go.”
Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have to. I mean—not to be forward, but—“
Minghao leans into Wonwoo’s thick bicep. He presses his lips to his shoulder, but he doesn’t kiss any further along his smooth, milky skin. The time has passed. He gets dressed quickly in low golden light from the lamp, checking his pocket for a familiar weight.
“I can’t stay.” Minghao slips on his wedding ring and brings his hand to his face. “Someone is waiting for me to call before bed.”
Wonwoo‘s face falls. He looks stunned, like Minghao’s hand had bludgeoned him across the back of the head. The analog clock tick-tocks in the front of the room as his expression shutters. Stone-cold, impassive.
“You kissed me first,” Wonwoo accuses.
Minghao almost smiles. “No, you fucked my husband first.” He drags his knuckles over the duvet. “But I really wish you the best, Jeon Wonwoo. I hope you can get out of Anyang someday.”
He lets himself out. The elevator ride down to the third floor is anticlimactic. Though he’s buzzing with a nauseating energy, there’s no one in the hallways this close to midnight, and he feels like he would appreciate being seen right now: doing a manic walk of shame in a five-star hotel in his nicest clothes.
In his own room, the air conditioning has kicked on automatically and the space is a refrigerator. He whips the dial down and throws open the curtains to a mediocre view of other mediocre views. The streets of Harajuku are teeming with pedestrians and lit neon. Down below, a cluster of people—friends—are gathered around a large yellow basin. No, it’s an enormous bowl filled with mangoes. Perfectly in season.
Minghao twirls the wedding ring on his finger. His silhouette cuts a stark shadow on the wall. Regal and so, so lonely. It feels like a black hole is opening beneath his feet, like he’s falling into the core where no one in the whole world can reach.
He sits on the edge of his bed and digs out his phone. He hits the first number on speed dial.
“Hey, baby,” says Mingyu, sleep-heavy and soft. “Thought you fell asleep on me.”
Minghao smiles. “No, I was just catching up with someone. You’ll never guess who I saw at the bar…”