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we are both boys: he looks at me through his thick lashes. a squint. three years of time travel, between him and me.
— Jinhao Xie, Moonlight
The first person is Hansol, calling for the forgotten password of their shared Netflix account. In the middle of a busy conundrum, inside a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop on 23rd Street. Minghao doesn’t pick up, instead reopens the last text sent six months ago and texts — reset the password. I don’t remember.
He leaves the message on read, no doubt running to Seungkwan as the messenger that he was alive. And he foolishly, just allows him to.
Minghao signs the lease of his one bedroom apartment in Seopu-gu. The air conditioning runs from 12-3 pm, and the only way to arrive at his door on the five floor is through the rickety, old stairs that creak with age. It’s home, but it’s not Gangnam-gu. He has visited there too often. His tenant is an elderly lady that Minghao assists in helping her carry her hefty load of groceries up five flights of stairs that dip, and croak with each step Minghao takes. “You’re a very handsome young man, have you ever thought of marriage? Or perhaps a nice wife?” She asks, wrinkled, neat hands that take out the eggs from the plastic bags and into her refrigerator.
“Oh no, I’m flattered ma’am. But I have no interest in marriage.” Or with a woman, nonetheless. But Minghao felt too guilty to say the last part of the sentence, helping her unload groceries in her own apartment.
“Nonsense,” She answers, “it is a shame though, I have a granddaughter your age, if you're ever still interested.” A twinkle in her eyes.
He swallows, a pit in his throat, thick and salivated. “I’ll remember that.” On his way out, she gives Minghao a red ginseng candy, tucked into his palm before she waves him good-bye.
“Myungho-yah, it’s time to come home.” Junhui tells him. He’s spooning through the basking broth of his bowl of suan la tang. They’re sitting at one big, small, crowded table at the back of their favorite restaurant — only Minghao listens and Junhui doesn’t.
“Did you hear about Mingyu-yah’s sister's wedding?” Ah, yes. Minghao did hear about that, from several people. There was the first invitation sent to his family home, a summer spent in Haicheng. Thick lettered, elegant, hand-written letters addressed to Xu Minghao. “You should’ve been there, it was wonderful.”
“Jun, what are you doing here?”
He blinks, picking up his spoon. “What do you mean? I’m here, with you.”
“No, I mean why are you here? I’m already home. Did you not hear from Woonwoo-hyung, I bought a new apartment. You should visit sometime.”
He crosses his arms. “When was the last time you messaged anyone? Seokmin-ah?” It’s possible to be afraid. Not that Minghao was.
“Not now,” He hisses. The rigid stance of his posture, flattened against the chair cleanly as Junhui offers his best smile.
What he doesn’t inform Junhui of, is that he did receive the invitation. But never had the heart to decline.
Seokmin returns from enlistment. That was a month ago. Minghao sees it on his Instagram page, arm cloaked around Soonyoung, and faded, brown cropped hair that was slowly growing back into his roots. Thick, and tumbling over his forehead as Seokmin smiled widely at the camera. He doesn’t like the post immediately, he treads carefully. He notices Mingyu’s crafted comment — welcome back Seokmin-ah!
Flesh, savored and peachy-skin, full and laid thickly. Pinkness in his cheeks, sore and tender but light. Minghao traces the figure of the photo, distant.
Junhui was the second person to inform Minghao that he’d returned; “you should come visit the city, I’m sure he’d love to see you.”
The thing is, he hadn’t seen Seokmin’s bony, thick cheeks that pop brightly when he grins, or how a distance of arched butterflies on his eyelashes lazily humming over honeybees. Sweet. If Minghao was being honest, he felt too embarrassed to see him, to see the rest of them. Distancing himself in the few months after he had packed from the dorms — it’s lonely. A mid-blur, parting of two figures and Mingyu reappears. It’s those two — when Minghao sits in a love seat for three, and three hands held in unison. He remembers how it once ended.
A contract sent in, then another. A hiatus later, a comeback after. Then a mild knee injury took Minghao out for a few weeks. Adored messages littering the walls of their profile, on Weverse with ‘Get better soon!’ After, is an occasional Music Bank performance, and instead of thirteen there’s twelve. Laundry is run, washed and hung on the drying rack outside of their dorms, and Minghao does three loads in the span of a day. To his surprise, it’s Mingyu replacing tupperware containers of week old congee or delivery takeout for home cooked meals in their kitchen.
Now, Mingyu is a busboy at his father’s restaurant in Gyeonggi-do, serving tables and occasionally behind the counter. Minghao, of course, doesn’t really know what he does other than the silly photos that Soonyoung uploads on his Instagram, in praise of his father’s cooking. “Come join us sometime!” He pleaded, a FaceTime call later and yawned in pursuit of the late evening.
A photo taken, spread like wildfire and news of Minghao returning to Seoul. “Maybe next time,” He answers distantly.
Minghao doesn’t remember much about the spotlight, he remembers dancing. He always liked dancing, dancing in the middle of the practice room, center focus or not. Feet pattering deftly, but dancing in front of a crowd is different. Being perceived, at risk of certain exposure, where the spotlight falls a bit short and the stagework is redone. “You’ve changed,” Junhui points out, as he squats down to pet Minghao’s newly adopted kitten, Her name is Hui Ying as she mewls and paws at Junhui’s feet. They’re lurking around his apartment, just finishing the last of boxes to be unpacked when he stares, dawning curiosity.
“For the better?”
A body splits, an echo into the mirror — he reaches out.
The next day, Minghao receives a knock on the door. Hui Ying comes tiptoeing towards the door, as he draws closer, lowering the volume of the t.v chowing away into background noise. Socks on his feet, hair unwashed, and he sniffs the hem of his sweatshirt. Minghao wasn’t expecting company, nor had he been willing to share his apartment location towards others, besides Junhui who visits to send his brother’s hulatang, insisting that he take extra to bring for Minghao.
He near the doorknob, unlocking the hatch and peeking through the peep-hole. Ripping the door open, it stands ajar, mouth hanging open. “Seokmin-ah?”
He stands there, legs lank, and thin and cheekbones bony with gentleness. Tawny, tumbling strands of hair that run ragged, torn across his forehead, but not neatly put together. Seokmin looks breathless, chest heaving and a brown paper bag in hand. “Myungho-yah, you look well.”
Seokmin doesn’t appear angry, or hurt, he’s never been selfish enough, too pious and too charitable. Earthy, unblemished smile and fingers pacing through the strands of hair tucked behind his ear repeatedly. “I apologize for showing up at your doorstep without warning, you must be busy.”
Minghao shifts the door a bit wider. An instinct, keeping it halfway after practice, a movie night around midnight that consists of the whole 2nd floor. Seokmin dips his head, grateful as he slips off his shoes, and slides into the pair of flippers at the foyer. “I hear you were released early, on awardance of good behavior?” He makes simple conversation, leading him to the kitchen counter. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea? Water?”
It’s out of place, to make a home of your own, and place someone so familiar inside. Seokmin isn’t the fit of the glove, but he’s comfortable. The truth is, the only drink that Minghao had to offer to his guest was the Qing Hao Herbal Tea his mother stored into his top cabinets when she visited a few weeks ago, insisting that he drink it for her, a gift from their neighbor. “I’ve never been too picky.” He answers, and Minghao is unable to contain the attainable subtle stretch of his mouth, shaping into a slight smile.
“No you haven’t, and I always appreciated that.” He reaches for the kettle, before turning on the tap water, and fills it to the brim. The stovetop burners rumble, pur before bright, purple flames brew at the bottom.
Seokmin stirs around in his seat, restless, fiddling with his fingers, trimmed and cuticles perfectly round. He looks good with an undercut, soft, graze of hair cowling over his eyes, Minghao wants to run his fingers through it. See if it would tickle, escaping the nape of his neck, tan from the humble, orange sun, but slender. “Your hair grew longer.” Seokmin points out, as Minghao is interrupted by the whistles, hoots of the kettle, and turns off the stove.
Subconsciously, he runs a free hand through the uncut edges of reddish, undyed nabs, sticky strands as tugs a bit. “Did it? I haven’t cut it in a few months — my trip to the hair salon is long overdue.” Minghao laughs, haughty, and pouring the tea bag into the mug, a ceramic, wide, flatter shape with a tawny kitten figure hanging to the rim. It’s childish, another housewarming gift from Junhui that he purchased at E-Mart for cheap.
“I like the length, it suits you well.” Seokmin smiles, rubbing his finger along the surface of the mug, smiling wistfully at the kitten ornament. “Your hair looks like you're on fire.”
Myungho, the color of your hair, looks like fire, Mingyu said. It’s pretty. Hand cusping around the nape of his neck, and he shivers. “So I’ve been told, perhaps it’s time that I change it.” He grins wryly.
“Don’t, I like the old look,” but the new you — Shaking his head, Seokmin curtly dips his head to take a long, preaching sip as he hums. “The tea, it’s bitter.”
“It’s good for digestion.” Minghao quips. And Seokmin smiles, never falling short as he drinks.
He passes through Yongsan, an advertisement for Seokmin's latest movie poster — to be released next month. It’s not a play, it’s not Excalibur, a catalyst for future promises. He was the first to receive the news, from Junhui, over a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Who had delightfully passed down the news from Seungkwan earlier that day. News spreads fast, just never the direct source to Minghao. It’s a late train, rumbling and rackety under his feet as he steps into the platform, and waits for a bus.
An opposition of fame, the illustrious moonlight ad, poster smothered across the city; face familiar. Bellowing, Minghao has yet to experience it, subtle, calm in the aftermath of a raging, hungry-torn storm. Then it tickles, tickles the tip of his throat, when Minghao awakens for a 9-5 day job at a desk instead of 7 am to be risen for a packed schedule: first stop to the hair stylist, an interview, three continuous hours of practice. It gets dull after a while, unsharpened, pressed, fine lines of boredom.
What defined him as a celebrity? Was it the public schedules, appreciative fans — the Weverse, fancalls, the money restless, twitching in his hands and the charts; billboard recognition. The fame?
Was Xu Minghao ever famous?
The inner infliction of a wound, spreading fast and blood reckons. Minghao clutches at his side, piercing through the tumbling, quick strands of hair, escaping through his fingers.
Myungho-yah, you dyed your hair, I always liked it. Mingyu laments, and Seokmin laughs, it always felt as if you were on fire, are you on fire Hao?
The evening after, Minghao books an appointment to the old hair salon he used to visit monthly. She remembers him, patting him down to the old seat he used to sit, and across was the other members, flipping through catalogs, lively. Adorned, but now vast, empty.
He dyes it back to brown, and shoots a text message to Junhui, attaching a selfie at the bottom.
You dyed it again. Junhui texts back. And three seconds later adds a cat GIF wiggling its tail, I like it.
“Minghao-yah? Is that really you?” He’s always liked the Kim family house, perched in a smaller house in Dongan-gu, it’s more modern and recently renovated. It’s kept neat, gray, cobblestone leading to the doorway. He arrives unannounced, three bottles of Jinro Bokbunja spiced fruit wine perched in his arms, inside a brown paper bag stuffed with silken tissue paper.
His mother appears behind arms, a brightened smile of recognition as she steps through the doors to cocoon Minghao into a tight hug. “It’s been so long, oh my just look at you! Have you been eating well?” She frets, patting his cheeks. “Thank you for the wine, Mingyu-ah always mentions that we should trust your taste in wine.”
“I appreciate the trust in judgement then, and I apologize for showing up uninvited.” He apologizes as Mingyu’s father chuckles, wrinkled lines of a smile appear and then flatten with intention to stay. Just like Mingyu.
“Absolutely nonsense, you’ve always been like a son to us.” His father reassures, “you’re always welcomed here anytime.”
“Mingyu isn’t home, if that’s what's on your mind.”
Mingyu breaks gaze, and gawks. “It wasn’t.”
It’s guilt that trips him, or the monthly fishing trips at Gungnamji Pond with Mingyu’s father, the shopping spent with his mother, it keeps him humbled. Anxious, distanced. Who was he, and did he become parted from his true self.
“He’s working at the restaurant today, but I’m sure if you left now you could make it before his shift ends.” His mother adds. “I’m sure he’d love it if you visited sometime, he’s been waiting.” He’s always been good at waiting, Minghao wants to answer. But instead, he keeps to himself, and numbly agrees, as he accepts the cup of omiija-cha from her offering hands, clad, thin and thick like Mingyu. He sits, kindred and lets the heat melt his fingertips and continues to listen to the reiterated story of Mingyu’s sister's wedding.
“Did you know that Seokmin was at the wedding?” Junhui recites. He thrusts his phone into Minghao’s face, he continues to stir his green tea latte with slight disinterest. The discussion of the wedding hung in the air — Minghao’s hair has returned to a bluish, wisp of grey, it’s been cut, but not too short otherwise the baby hairs that teeth at his neck would annoy him to eternity. Mingyu would recommend growing it out next time. Fortunately, neither of them are here.
“Jun, this is the third time you’ve shown the photo to me,” And now it would be the fourth.
It’s a good photo, Mingyu in a clad, charcoal grey, black suit, his buttons popped one by one. A relaxed arm thrown over Seokmin, and the gold stud in the left ear, a ring of light haloing, tinting at his jaw, and Minghao clenches his jaw. Hands lathered, gripping at his shoulder, tan and blotted with blemishes. Crevices, crinkles of tired fatigues worked on his hands, as they stared identical into the camera. It’s a good photo, he has to admit.
That was also a month after contracts had been sent back, a week to be decided. That week then, Seokmin begins work for a new musical, and Mingyu finishes an interview for L'Officiel Hommes. “It’s convincing right?” Junhui wiggles his eyebrows and steals a sip of his latte, as Minghao religiously glares at him and he wipes the cream off his mouth.
“Do me a favor and never become a car salesman.”
He visits the restaurant on a whim, right before closing hours. Through the window, he peeks in to gain a better glimpse of Mingyu’s working shadows, scrubbing away at the counter — fit, thinner outline and buffer muscle sharp from underneath his black button-down, hair unscrubbed and he probably smelled like spice and Le Labo Santal 33. “Mingyu-ah,” He breathes out, airy and light. The door rings, as he enters.
He sets down the wet rag, scrutinizing Minghao’s distant figure. “When’d you arrive back in town? Minghao-yah, is that really you?” His smile is gentle, body firm and still. A rustle from the curtain through presumably the back area, lifted and Seokmin emerges. Cheeks a bit of light, rosy as he stops in his tracks, noticing Minghao’s presence.
They meet, it’s an odd distinct gut-wrenching feeling pitted in his gut, a gust of smiles thrown and blended together, pink and purple, warmth crawling in free space. Minghao, a bystander -- perhaps home was closer then he truly believed. Running away, or leaving too soon. “Hao,” the nickname softens when spoken, permeable. “It’s great to see you again!” So genuine, that it hurts.
It felt intruding — to wander, stumble upon two bodies of matter — but it was safe. And Minghao —
What exactly does he want? Does he want —
“Minghao-yah, would you like to come in?” Mingyu says.
The sickness in his belly, slowly, goes away. “How’s the restaurant been?” He starts. And it’s opening, another beginning —