Work Text:
"It is a restless moment. She has kept her head lowered... to give him a chance to come closer. But he could not, for lack of courage."
- Title card, In The Mood For Love
“Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.”
- Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
----
There is a flower on his doorstep - a single pink rose, petals still glistening with morning dew, still drowning in the earthy-warm smell of the flowerbed it was harvested from.
There are the familiar notes of a piano too - Bach’s Suite No. 1 in C major, his favourite - muted from behind the oakwood door right across the hall, tingling with promise.
Minghao should stop, stop letting his heart flutter like this, stop entertaining fantasies he should have gotten rid of a long time ago, and-
And yet, there it is. The flash of carefully folded parchment paper wrapped along the rose’s prickly stem, reduced to soft velvet in his hands as he finally picks it up, unspools it:
A rose by any other name
Is still not as sweet as you
(Sorry, I have never claimed to be good at quoting Shakespeare.)
Happy Birthday, Myungho-yah.
PS - Have dinner with me tonight? You know where to find me.
- Lee Seokmin
And.
The cicadas chirp louder outside his window. Downstairs, Mrs Jang’s cat lets out a resounding shriek. Across the hall, the symphony mellows, the piano keys mirroring the rhythm of Minghao’s meandering heartbeat. The parchment paper is still velvet in his palms, its careful dark-blue lettering slanting in consistent ebbs and flows, and Minghao can barely breathe.
After all, he never stood a chance.
-----
The roof of their apartment building is blissfully abandoned on most nights, which is simultaneously both a relief and the very bane of his existence.
Minghao can escape to this place every time he’s in a creative slump, struggling with the composition of his latest painting or overthinking the finishing touches of a sculpture. There is a battered, forgotten couch ensconced underneath an asbestos canopy, brown leather chipping away to reveal ruptured loaves of cotton, and in it, Minghao finds a kindred spirit. He too is a battered shell of his former self, barely keeping the ruptured loaves of his consciousness from spilling out.
From up here, the city is a distant hum, bustling Seoul traffic fading into unobtrusive background noise, the overcrowded streets feeling like they belong to a completely different galaxy. From up here, Minghao can finally breathe, can let all miscellaneous pent-up anxieties around unpaid bills and unsold art and unfinished exhibitions bleed out of his system, bit by painstaking bit. From up here, Minghao can drown out the singe of past wounds, if only for a second.
But on other nights, this rooftop is not quite so blissfully abandoned. In fact, nowadays, it rarely is the bastion of solitude Minghao had almost gotten used to. Nowadays, it rarely is without the presence of something else, someone else, someone who lives across the hall, on the other side of that oakwood door, on the other end of blooming pink roses.
And therein lies the bane of his existence.
“You came,” says a gentle voice, dripping with equal parts amusement and awe, as if it really is a miracle that Minghao came, as if the likelihood of that particular outcome was even remotely uncertain.
Lee Seokmin smiles up at him with the force of a thousand supernovas, his eyes crinkling with unrestrained mirth, his right hand outstretched, clutching yet another bundle of radiant-pink roses.
And.
Minghao never stood even a tiny sliver of a chance, no matter how hard he has tried to resist. His heartbeat is a wild cacophony of piano keys, chiming and crescendoing and slicing him sideways. He is no longer a forgotten, battered leather couch, no longer ruptured loaves of cotton bursting at the seams. He is, perhaps, something whole.
“You promised me free dinner," is all he can croak out hastily, his hands shaking as they settle on Seokmin's, brushing against errant rose-thorns, reeling from the onslaught of honey-warm skin. "Figured I'd take you up on that offer."
Lee Seokmin’s smile widens - if that was even possible - every inch of his face burning tinder-bright, a collision of stars.
The cicadas sing again, and countless other rosebuds bloom on the meticulously tended flowerbed on Lee Seokmin’s windowsill. Downstairs, Mrs Jang's cat lets out another resounding shriek, and the fairylights Minghao hung across the asbestos canopy last Chuseok twinkle into life. The earth turns on its axis, one more time.
He breathes in.
***
It begins like this:
It is a February morning three winters ago, and Minghao comes home to a hallway full of scattered cartons, Mrs Jang's cat darting from behind one cardboard box to another in curious exploration.
He doesn't think much of it, doesn't want to think much of it, especially today, when he's so exhausted he can barely keep his eyes open, can barely type in the passcode accurately to unlock his apartment, but-
The oakwood door across the hall from his is left ajar, and something indomitable draws Minghao to it, like a noose has been wrung around his neck and is being pulled, pulled, pulled until Minghao has no choice but to surrender to its machinations.
Piano keys.
Chopin: Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 in E Flat Major.
Before he knows it, Minghao’s standing at the precipice of that very same oakwood doorway, his own unlocked door forgotten, his pulse on the verge of skyrocketing out of his skin.
There, right in front of him, like stormclouds parting after Autumn rain, like cherry blossoms blooming in the pinnacle of March, like cicadas chirping in the tail-end of winter, is -
Long, slender fingers moving across the length of the piano like its his second skin, sharp, undulating nose lowered intently into the sheaves of paper stuck to the lip of the piano - possibly the very maps to the symphony that is currently tossing Minghao inside and out - lips curved into an absent half-smile, his immaculately starched shirt-collar slightly upturned.
Minghao can only stare, mouth falling open, as if sucked into the chasms of an ancient, bottomless ocean, flailing beneath the force of pummeling waves. He stares, until he forgets how long he’s been staring, forgets the persistent meowing of Mrs Jang’s cat at his heels, forgets the fading rays of February sun transforming into orange skies, forgets his exhaustion, his desperation, forgets that-
“Are you just going to stand in the doorway or come inside?” a surprisingly gentle voice interjects, though tinged with unmistakable implications of teasing banter, “It would be rude of me to not offer my new neighbour a cup of tea, at the very least.”
“I-I…” Minghao splutters, immediately snapping out of his stupor, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket, unable to keep the raging blush off his cheeks, “I was just...uhh...umm… I should- I’m sorry-”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” The new neighbour in question flashes him a blinding smile, and Minghao feels like something is careening squarely into the very middle of his chest, whizzing past his ribcage, leaving a scalding trail of debris behind, “Don’t apologise, I haven’t had such a captive audience in months.”
Minghao blushes even more furiously, cursing internally at how utterly moronic he might seem right now, having showed up at this stranger's doorstep with no preamble whatsoever, only to have stood here gaping like a fool, watching said stranger play Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 in E Flat Major to breathless perfection. God, what a terrible first impression to make on the man he has to effectively live five inches away from for the foreseeable future.
“I just, um,” Minghao clears his throat, attempting to sound like a functional human being, but failing miserably, yet again, “You’re...good. At, um. Playing the piano.”
The stranger looks up from the kettle he’s already mounted on the stove, bustling around his sparsely populated kitchen in (possible) search for two usable cups. His smile this time has an odd bashfulness to it, as if he genuinely is surprised by the compliment - yet it is no less blindingly brilliant, yet it is no less detrimental to the state of Minghao’s wellbeing.
There’s a brief pause, and Mrs Jang’s cat lets out another emphatic yowl, pawing at the edges of Minghao’s trousers in a desperate bid for attention. Cicadas continue to chirp outside his new neighbour’s fogged-over windows, and Minghao’s eyes briefly settle on the pink litany of rosebuds peeking from the flowerbed on his windowsill, a luminous dash of colour amidst dull grey concrete walls. A metaphor for his new neighbour too - vibrance, among monotony.
“I’m Lee Seokmin,” the stranger finally says, past the sound of a whistling kettle, his smile as devastatingly blinding as ever, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, neighbour-nim.”
“Xu Minghao,” he blabbers, despite himself, the words slipping out before he can even stop himself, before he can even consider the implications of giving this handsome, blindingly smiling stranger his full government name. “Call me Xu Minghao.”
Another (heart-crushing, universe-bending) smile, steam curling across the kitchen, the telltale scent of ginseng and honey filling the entire apartment. Mrs Jang’s cat clawing at Minghao’s torn leather boots, pink rosebuds emerging tantalisingly out of a windowsill flowerbed that should be a complete botanical anomaly and yet, is in full bloom.
“Would you like to join me for tea, Seo Myungho-sshi?” Lee Seokmin says.
And Minghao-
He never really stood a chance.
----
“When you said dinner, I thought you meant an actual meal, not Buldak ramen and radish kimchi.”
“Yah!” Seokmin protests from between mouthfuls of the aforementioned Buldak ramen, “I’ll have you know that this is one hundred percent homemade radish kimchi, brought to you by yours truly! An absolute delicacy!”
Minghao rolls his eyes, and yet, against his better judgement, swallows another helping of the kimchi-laden ramen, letting the gochujang bristle on his tongue. As much as he loathes to admit it, Seokmin does make incredible ramen (and equally incredible kimchi), which is only the latest in a long list of Things Lee Seokmin Is Infuriatingly Good At. It really should be considered a federal crime to be so untarnishably perfect, and Minghao has given up on trying to make peace with it, has resigned himself to the traitorous fluttering of his heart every time the setting sun renders Seokmin’s face into spun gold.
They're on the very same battered leather couch that Minghao often commiserates with, bowls of kimchi and side dishes and soju bottles crowding the folding table in front of them. The pink roses lie on Minghao's lap, the satin-white ribbon holding them together coming slightly loose - but Minghao is being extra careful with them, is treating them like the most valuable of treasures.
"I'm sorry," Seokmin says after a beat, taking a longer than usual sip of his soju, his eyes brimming with something far more profound, despite his blinding smile remaining intact. "I wanted to treat you to something grander on your birthday, but - well, business has been slow, you know. Not that much of a turnout for musical theatre lately."
Minghao feels a sudden stab of guilt - a potent reminder that he's not the only struggling artist in this apartment building, that Seokmin too has been living from paycheck to paycheck, barely making ends meet as a burgeoning stage actor.
"Don't apologise," Minghao almost reaches for Seokmin's hand - almost - but abandons courage at the very last minute, settling on a brief pat on the shoulder instead. "I like this. It is a delicacy, after all."
Minghao attempts a smile, intending it to be a tiny one - offering momentary reassurance, solidarity as a fellow down-on-his-luck artist - but as the fairylights flicker against the early evening breeze, as Seokmin's lips slowly begin to curl upwards, his eyes once again turn into crescents under the weight of his delight, Minghao can't help it. Minghao can't help but beam in return , full-bodied, effervescent.
Lee Seokmin is always beautiful when he’s like this, unfurled from corner to corner, limb from limb, every fingerbreadth of his being offered up for open perusal.
"Knew you'd love it, Myungho-yah," he smirks, pouring them both more glasses of soju, letting his left hand rest on Minghao's roses. "Now, are you going to make a birthday wish or not?"
Minghao rolls his eyes again, letting out an audible scoff, "You know I don't believe in that stuff."
Seokmin’s smirk only brightens, ignoring Minghao's protest. "They say if you make a birthday wish exactly after the sun has gone down, it always comes true."
Minghao whines, honest-to-god whines, sounding oddly like Mrs Jang's cat when she's displeased with the lack of attention she's getting. "Seokmin-ah!"
"Come on now," Seokmin cajoles, and in the next split second, he has scooped the roses out of Minghao's lap and gently filed them away under the table, leaning forward and forward until he's mere centimetres away from Minghao, "It's an important birthday ritual."
Once again, Minghao can barely breathe, can barely keep his pulse from skyrocketing out of his body. Like this, suspended in Seokmin's orbit, barely a whisper separating their lips, Minghao can trace the complete expanse of Seokmin's honey-warm skin, can feel the mirth radiating from him, burrowing a permanent hole into the ridges of Minghao's throat. Minghao feels buoyant, like even the slightest gust of wind will knock him off balance, will cause him to float away with the clouds.
"Fine," he huffs out, the words almost disappearing into the contours of Seokmin's cheek, echoing against Seokmin's consistently blinding smile.
Minghao has no self-preservation, no sense of self-restraint.
Seokmin pulls back then - but only temporarily, only so he could fish out a minuscule scented candle from his pocket and light it, holding it up to Minghao's mouth. He nearly sparkles in its shadow, so breathtaking it's like Minghao is staring directly at the sun.
With another reluctant (or perhaps not-so-reluctant) sigh, Minghao shuts his eyes, gathers every last remnant of his composure, tries to ignore the tenderness of Seokmin's gaze, the fluttering of his own constantly meandering heartbeat.
"This," the thought occurs unbidden, completely out of left field, taking Minghao by storm. " Just this, right now. This is all I want."
When he finally lets out an exaggerated breath and slowly opens his eyes, it feels like the ground beneath his feet has fundamentally shifted, tremors shooting up his spine, every nerve ending in blazing ruin. The earth has flung apart from its axis.
Seokmin is still smiling, as magnificently blinding as ever, and Minghao feels like the pink roses lying underneath the folding table: rudderless, terrified.
Never, for even a single moment, has Minghao stood a chance.
***
Could you play Debussy’s Claire de lune tonight? If that’s not too much to ask? Totally okay if you don’t want to.
- XMH
You could have just come over instead of leaving cryptic notes under my door, you know. Seriously, I don't bite.
PS: anything for you, Myungho-yah
- Lee Seokmin
Sorry, I was scared
I had a rough day.
Thank you for playing that for me. It was really nice.
I hope your audition went well today.
- XMH
You remembered me telling you about the audition!!!!!!!!!!!
You really are a softie at heart, aren’t you Xu Minghao?
(yes, it went well!! I think I might get a callback soon :D)
PS - Don’t be scared, Myungho-yah. Next time too, I’ll play you anything you want. My piano lives to serve you.
- Lee Seokmin
Thank you, Seokmin-ah. I mean it.
PS: Of course I remembered.
- XMH
***
There are some things Minghao will never admit even when held at gunpoint, will physically recoil at the very thought of saying out loud.
One :
Everything he paints lately feels hollow, inanimate. Regardless of how vivid the colours on his paintbrush are, the canvas is barely complete, is barely alive, is splattered only with dull clichés.
Perhaps it's the consequence of cheapening the sanctity of his art to pay the bills - by accepting commissions from corporate firms who want to simply accessorize their swanky offices, from galleries that exist only as vehicles for rich people circlejerks. Perhaps, it is creative burnout, like his therapist has pointed out again and again, her brows knitted together in obvious concern.
Either way, lately, everytime the tip of his paintbrush hits paper, his nerves physically crumble, like he's about to implode once and for all, annihilated forever.
But then, Lee Seokmin moves in across the hall on that fateful February afternoon, and it's like a compass finding its geographic north, a lost puzzle piece snapping back into place. (Lee Seokmin is infuriating, so, so infuriating ).
Seokmin casually waltzes into his apartment one Saturday, armed with boxes of his infamous homemade kimchi, takes one look at the abandoned oil painting on Minghao's worktable and says, "That's beautiful, Myungho-yah. Yah, You never told me you were so talented!"
And, without warning, without fanfare, without the universe clawing itself apart, Minghao can finally see the colours again.
For the millionth inexplicable time since Minghao first laid eyes on Seokmin, he can breathe.
Two:
Minghao hasn't spared much thought to roses before.
They're an abstract concept, a cultural symbol of romance that is unfathomable to him, because roses aren't even that inherently romantic. Roses are impossible to grow without constant, assiduous care, are perpetually susceptible to ruin at the hands of arachnids and fungal pests.
An aesthetic, is all they are. Something superficial, far too laborious to maintain.
And yet.
These days, he can't help but be a little bit curious.
"Why do you grow roses on your windowsill?" Minghao unceremoniously blurts out one night, halfway between swallowing a bite of the jajangmyeon Seokmin invited him over to share. "Sorry, don't answer that. It's none of my business."
"I don't mind answering," Seokmin smiles, blinding as always, reaching over to absently wipe a drop of sauce from the corner of Minghao's lip, causing Minghao to blush profusely (as he's always prone to around Lee Seokmin).
"To be honest, there's no particular reason, I just like roses, I think."
"Actually, no, that's not it." Seokmin adds after a minute's pause (during which Minghao has been utterly unable to tame his furious blush, his lip still tingling in the aftermath of Seokmin's touch).
Seokmin's smile turns into something more contemplative, like he's thinking hard, trying to formulate the exact right words. It's not often that Seokmin is so careful in articulating his thoughts, so measured in his choice of expression. Usually, Seokmin is the very epitome of spontaneity, bubbling with so much candour and brightness everything about him feels effortless, like he was born to radiate endless light.
Minghao can't help but lean forward, can't help but cling on to every tiny exhale Seokmin lets out, can't help but linger on the endlessly fascinating depths of Seokmin's gentle brown eyes, on every minuscule shift of his body language.
"I think," Seokmin finally continues, something oddly resolute about the set of his jaw, "I think, I'm drawn to their resilience. Every season, I'm scared that they might not survive - that I'll wake up one morning and see that they've withered in the dry weather, or some insect has eaten through their leaves. But they prove me wrong every single time. They always survive."
Seokmin pauses again, gentle brown eyes now fixated on Minghao, pinning him to the spot, conveying something that Minghao is hopelessly scrambling to decipher, but isn't quite able to.
"To me, they symbolise hope," he finally adds, gaze still unwavering from Minghao, smile still a touch contemplative. "That's why I like them so much."
And.
Perhaps, Minghao is starting to get the appeal of roses now.
Perhaps, they are not so laborious.
Perhaps, the labour is worth it.
Three:
Tonight, play Brahms: Intermezzo in A Major? Please?
- XMH
Sometimes, there are no written responses to the notes he leaves on Seokmin's doorstep. Sometimes, there is only the immediate echoing of piano keys from the other side of that oakwood door, faithfully following along with Minghao's every desperate demand, every deranged plea.
Sometimes, it makes Minghao greedy.
Sometimes, it makes Minghao think he could ask for the moon, and Seokmin would crawl across the night sky to personally pluck it out for him, delivering it to his doorstep neatly wrapped in a bow.
Tomorrow, can I pick the symphony? You'll love it, Myungho-yah, I promise.
- Lee Seokmin
And Minghao can breathe, every single knot in his stomach dissipating, turning into dust.
Four:
It has been raining all week, shrouding Seoul skies in persistent pale grey, gloom settling permanently into Minghao's bones.
Even now, the rain is relentless, barrelling into the asbestos canopy above him as Minghao once again stands on the roof, looking out into the bustling cityscape, the cigarette between his fingers on the verge of fizzling out.
He puts it to his lips, inhaling a ragged lungful of nicotine, letting it simmer past his nostrils, past his tongue. Outside, a motorbike darts across the street, spraying puddles of mud and grime in its wake, headlights blinking bright yellow. The cicadas aren't chirping tonight, but Mrs Jang's cat is as tenacious as ever, yowling adamantly from what sounds like the second floor hallway. She's a wanderer, that one, always patrolling one floor of the building or the other, always making her presence felt, even when she's not physically occupying a particular space and time. Strangely enough, Minghao likes that about her - he has a soft spot for liminal beings.
"That's bad for you, you know," a familiar voice derails his train of thought. Before Minghao can even blink, a hand is reaching towards him, fishing the cigarette out of his mouth so quickly it gives him whiplash, then stamping it to the ground.
"Ouch," Minghao says, smarting from the maneuver, "That was the last of my stash."
"Good," Lee Seokmin replies with an oddly smug smile (though no less blinding), "It means you won't have anything left to smoke."
Minghao should be offended, he really should - and he would have been, if this was anyone else but Lee Seokmin - but somehow, all he feels is an absurd sense of relief, an immeasurable weight sliding off his shoulders.
"Sorry," he ends up murmbling in response, "I know it's a bad habit."
"It's okay," and Seokmin's smile - that very same phenomenon that routinely causes a million revelations to plague Minghao night and day, hour by hour - turns into something a lot more mellow, lush with fondness.
He inches closer to Minghao, his shirt once again immaculately pressed, smelling faintly of rose petals, his hands callused with imprints of piano keys. For a prolonged second, there is silence, and they both stare at the raindrops together, their palms brushing just the slightest bit, suspended in this moment that feels infinite, everything and nothing all at once.
Seokmin often joins him like this - when Minghao escapes to the roof to watch the earth spin on its axis - wordlessly, without invitation. It is (was?) the bane of his existence, like a telescope aimed directly at his fluttering heartbeat, inspecting every ventricle, every narrow, throbbing vein. Seokmin has this uncanny ability to make him feel brutally exposed, and no amount of subterfuge he attempts is effective, no carefully calculated defense is enough.
It is the bane of his existence, it is, but at the same time-
"I got the callback, by the way," Seokmin murmurs, that odd tinge of bashfulness once again colouring his self-deprecating chuckle (Minghao has learned to put a name to it now, has realised that it's only a product of Seokmin's genuine awe at his artistry being recognised), "It's a lead role this time. I'm playing King Arthur."
And this, this is an unique emotion too - the pride swelling in his chest, threatening to splash out of every available surface of his fractured being, the renewed skyrocketing of his pulse.
Minghao can barely keep the blatant affection out of his answering smile. "I knew you could do it, Seokmin-ah."
But it's worth it, when Seokmin goes slightly pink in the cheeks, letting out a jubilant giggle, tangling his piano-callused fingers with Minghao's. It's worth it, when Seokmin's rose-scented shirt leaves imprints all across Minghao's arm, dousing him in a million epiphanies, a million tingling promises.
"You'll do it too, Myungho-yah," Seokmin says, staring up at him with gentle brown eyes full of endless warmth, unhindered tenderness. "You'll finish your abandoned oil painting."
And.
Perhaps, Minghao has been lying to himself all along.
Perhaps, Lee Seokmin isn't the bane of his existence, is the polar opposite, is the hurricane that would untether Minghao from everything he holds true and then assemble all his ruptured loaves of cotton back together.
Or perhaps, Minghao was forever fated to meet his downfall at Lee Seokmin's capable, piano-callused hands.
After all, he never really stood a chance.
----
“Chopin’s Prelude No. 15 in D flat Major?”
“Only the very best for your birthday, Myungho-yah,” Seokmin smile is so blinding, Minghao thinks it will scorch its way into the very kernels of his soul, will utterly incinerate everything in its path, “I know you have a soft spot for Chopin.”
Minghao’s breath comes in fits and starts, his head swimming, clambering to comprehend the weight of Seokmin’s gesture. He attempts composure, equanimity, but the tremor in his voice is a dead giveaway, a traitorous reminder of everything he’s on the verge of losing, “I-I can’t believe you recorded the whole thing for me.”
“Couldn’t really logistically carry my piano to the roof, so I thought this will have to do,” Seokmin replies with a self-deprecating chuckle, placing his phone gingerly on the couch between them, letting it relay the aforementioned recording, the very same piano keys which never fail to wreak havoc on Minghao’s sense of sanity.
A shiver tumbles down Minghao’s spine, and he’s sure it has nothing to do with the crisp November air, he’s sure that here he is again, telescope aimed directly at his fluttering heartbeat, completely at Lee Seokmin’s mercy, completely at Lee Seokmin’s disposal.
The opening notes of Chopin’s Prelude No. 15 penetrate the evening sky, drowning out the delirious hum of the city beneath their feet, the fairylights on the canopy blinking on and off in unison. Empty soju bottles and ramen containers still crowd the table before them, the bundle of pink roses underneath it still tenuously tied together with a singular satin-white ribbon. Right now, the chirping of cicadas is distant, Mrs Jang’s cat’s purring from the second floor hallway far more subdued than usual. But all of that ceases to matter, fades into mere white noise, rendered obsolete in the wake of Seokmin’s gentle brown eyes, Seokmin’s outstretched hand, Seokmin’s unwavering sincerity.
“Will you do me the honour of this dance, Seo Myungho?” The question is uttered so softly, Minghao almost misses it, almost considers it a lucid dream.
"I-I….." He stutters, feeling utterly unequipped to deal with this, to respond to this. What can he do, when all his attempts at subterfuge have been rendered futile, when all his defences have come crumbling down, once and for all?
"Come on, Myungho-yah," But Seokmin always knows how to fill in his silences, always knows how to nudge him out of his hard-worn shell, "It's your birthday"
And.
Minghao never really stood a chance, did he? Never, for even a single moment.
He lets out an exhale he didn't even realise he was holding in, taking Seokmin's outstretched hand at last, sparks of electricity sizzling across the point where their palms connect.
In the next split second, Seokmin has pulled him up from the battered leather couch and has carefully towed him underneath the fairylights, engulfed in the crescendo of Seokmin's recorded symphony. The melody surrounds them, fills every pore, every surface of Minghao's skin, floods every darkened corner of his soul with light - with Seokmin's light.
Seokmin's right hand envelopes Minghao's waist, holding him so delicately it's like he's afraid Minghao will shatter like stained glass, like even the tiniest of motions will fracture their shared illusions.
"Did you finish your painting yet?" Seokmin says, and for the second time that evening, they are mere whispers apart, their noses brushing, their breaths intermingling.
"I'm working on it."
And it's true. Last week, Minghao had rescued the abandoned oil painting from his worktable, had sucked in a ragged breath, and put his brush to the palette. The painting had begun as just a smattering of haphazard shapes on canvas, without any real meaning, without any real direction. But: You'll do it too, Myungho-yah , Seokmin's voice had beaten a persistent tattoo in his subconscious, and this time, Minghao hadn't been able to ignore it. This time, there was life shimmering in the painting’s distorted cracks and edges, and Minghao was beginning to figure out how to harness it.
Before he knows it, the symphony swells, reaching its climax, transforming into something transcendental. Minghao's throat is dry, his hands trembling, despite how tightly Seokmin is clasping them. He feels rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but stare up at Seokmin like he's the be-all and end-all of this solar system, like he's the very axis the earth spins on.
"Good," Seokmin smiles again, but now, it's more than just blinding, it's more than just radiant. It's a benediction, the culmination of every hopeless fantasy Minghao has ever entertained, a beacon of the very same hope Seokmin finds reflected in his roses.
The music swells, climaxes, and so does Minghao's fluttering heartbeat - the eternal victim of its machinations. Seokmin leans in, closer, closer than they've ever been, so close Minghao can count his eyelashes, so close Minghao can count the creases of his slightly chapped lips.
"Minghao," and it's uttered in the original mandarin - like it was always meant to be uttered - so heartbreakingly intimate, Minghao no longer knows how to protect himself from this final undoing, from this final decimation of every last one of his futile defences.
It happens before Minghao can even fully register the scope of its implication. Feet tiptoeing upwards so their faces are finally level, lips surging forwards so he can finally taste Seokmin for real - his rose-hued sincerity, his blinding incandescence.
The kiss is simultaneously fleeting and limitless. It starts with the frantic nudges of Minghao's lips against Seokmin's, begging them apart, staggering for purchase. But it only takes mere milliseconds for Seokmin to catch up, for Seokmin to plunge headfirst into the onslaught of Minghao’s tentative overture, to grant Minghao complete, unhindered access to the planes of his mouth, to the very epicentre of his blinding smile. Minghao pants and plunders, drenched in that infuriatingly heady rose-scent that is so quintessential to Seokmin, without which Minghao’s days and nights are incomplete, without which Minghao can barely remember how to hope. Seokmin’s left hand on his waist is like a vice grip, a haven he never knew he craved, and his other hand is now poised at the nape of Minghao’s neck, fingers tracing swooping circles into his shivering skin.
Seokmin’s lips move slow, inexorable, a stark contrast to Minghao’s frenzied incursion, and Minghao is undone, drawn and quartered, pinned to the stake, untethered by the hurricane of Lee Seokmin’s devotion, and then assembled, one devastated fragment at a time.
It is agony.
It is ecstasy.
But, as abruptly as it had begun, the spell is broken as the recording skids to a halt, the melody concluding with a final flourish, yanking the crisp November evening air back into stunned silence. No Mrs Jang’s cat purring. No cicadas chirping. No bustle of the city beneath their feet.
Only Xu Minghao and Lee Seokmin, tangled together in this nebulous symmetry, arms still wrapped around each other, lips still mere whispers apart.
" Fuck ,” Minghao spirals, the enormity of what just happened finally dawning on him, finally filling his insides with the dread it should have from the very get-go, “Fuck, I shouldn’t have - I shouldn’t have done that, Seokmin-ah, I’m s-”
“Don’t,” Seokmin cuts in a little too maniacally, the complete antithesis of his usual easygoing demeanour. “Don’t say anything else...D-don’t say sorry, please?”
And.
In that moment, suspended in the cusp of time, tangled together interminably - in more ways than one - Minghao sees it. The pure, unadulterated desperation in Lee Seokmin’s infamous gentle brown eyes. The very same desperation Minghao has been wrestling with for months, from that fateful February afternoon when his feet involuntarily led him to that endlessly alluring oakwood doorway, when he stood there watching the most handsome man he’s ever laid eyes on play Chopin’s Nocturne No. 2 in E Flat Major.
Minghao once again feels like the pink roses lying underneath the folding table: rudderless, terrified.
"Seokmin?" he murmurs, mustering up a courage he didn’t think he had within him. Trying his luck again with another desperate demand, another deranged plea, hoping that this time too - like every other time before it - Seokmin would indulge him.
"Y-yeah?"
"Can you…. can we…” Minghao sucks in a breath, willing his heartbeat to stop fluttering so maddeningly, willing his courage to persevere, “Can we stay like this a little bit longer, Seokmin-ah?"
The effect is so instantaneous, Minghao hardly sees it coming, hardly anticipates the startling extent of it. Seokmin’s gentle brown eyes suddenly shed their uncertainty, shed their restraint - and there are galaxies within it now, twinkling and expanding like rose-scented hope, once again, forever, and everlasting.
“Ofcourse, Minghao,” Seokmin replies, that same heartbreakingly intimate turn of language, his voice so tender it nearly topples Minghao off balance. “We can do whatever you like. It’s your birthday, after all.”
Minghao shuts his eyes, suppressing the tears that are now threatening to cascade to the surface, burying his face into the crook of Seokmin’s neck in one final burst of courage. His heart, a mess of discombobulated piano keys.
He never, ever stood a chance, and perhaps, just perhaps-
He’s never wanted to.
----
There is a flower between Lee Seokmin’s fingers - a single pink rose, petals still glistening with morning dew, still drowning in the earthy-warm smell of the flowerbed it was harvested from.
The sky is heavy with gathering, hulking clouds, threatening impending thunderstorms. But within his heart, there is eternal sunshine, there is a revolution that is equal parts frightening and exhilarating.
Last night was a glimpse of momentary heaven, a luxury he might never get to have again, might never even get remotely close to, ever again. He knows he shouldn’t hope for anything more , isn’t allowed to hope for anything more, but here he is, pink rose between his fingers, hoping like a blundering fool. Hoping, like these very pink roses have always taught him to.
It’s stupid, he’s stupid. He should move on, should splash some cold water on his face to get rid of his dreadful hangover, and go about his day. He should bury that teetering hope deep, deep within, as deep as it can possibly be buried, erasing every lingering memory of Xu Minghao’s lips against his, Xu Minghao’s voice murmuring his name like it’s something impossibly sacred, something untangibly precious.
And he’s about to - he really is - is about to finally get up from the living room couch (where he’s spent the entire morning, yearning like the incurably romantic fool he is), is about to take a shower and head out for his daily play rehearsal, but then, then-
A familiar series of knocks on his door. Staggered - one tentative, another a little more resolute.
Another pause, and all Seokmin can hear from the other side of the doorway is laboured breathing, hesitant, retreating footsteps.
Yet another minute passes, and Seokmin scurries up from the couch at lightning speed, opens the door with his heart in his throat, barely keeps his hands from trembling.
The hallway is empty, just as he’d expected, just as it always is, whenever there’s knocking of this specific variety.
Tonight, Erik Satie: Gymnopedié no. 1?
PS - Let’s have dinner again? You know where to find me.
PPS - I want to show you my painting.
- XMH
And.
The cicadas chirp louder outside his window. Downstairs, Mrs Jang’s cat lets out her trademark resounding shriek. The earth spins on its axis.
Lee Seokmin hopes, incorrigibly.