Chapter Text
Hyuna dressed one boyfriend up in black, the other in white. Hyunjin always gets them confused, even though they’re quite different in appearance and personality, and somehow, the contrasting outfits don’t diminish the effect. Seeing her at the stage door, though, after the hell weeks Hyunjin has been barely living through, would have made tears spring to Hyunjin’s eyes if he hadn’t just lost half his body’s moisture content through sweat. “Sticky,” she comments, one-arm hugging him.
“That’s all you have to say?” Hyunjin says, sniffing indignantly (but also emotionally).
“It was incredible,” says Rich Boyfriend, offering Hyunjin a bouquet.
“I liked the part with the swans,” says Weird Boyfriend.
Hyunjin takes the bouquet—mostly daisies—and smiles at Weird Boyfriend. “Thank you for coming,” he says nonspecifically to all of them. “I hope it wasn’t a total waste of time.”
“I know this is a lot to ask, but please don’t be ridiculous,” Hyuna says, and keeps her arm around his sweaty waist as they start heading away from the theater and toward the nearby hysterically overpriced tapas bar she selected for a post-show celebration. “Obviously we were going to come. Even if not just to support you, but also because, like. You’ve been going through a lot. I wanted to see if it was all worth it.”
“Haha,” Hyunjin says nervously, glancing back at the two boyfriends, whose heads are leaned together as they consider the order of charms on Rich Boyfriend’s bizarre Pandora-style bracelet. “Do you mean the grueling rehearsal schedule, or…?”
Her guilty face says it all. “Look. You said not to tell Dad, and I didn’t.”
Hyunjin squawks. “Well! Are they going to tell—”
“C’mon,” Hyuna says, now scandalized. “They’re cool.”
Hyunjin really doesn’t understand Hyuna’s definition of the word. And he really doesn’t like that the boyfriends know about his current situation. Drying sweat is making his whole body feel like one big itch. He squirms his way out of Hyuna’s hold, crossing his arms around himself tightly instead. “What exactly did you tell them?”
Hyuna’s looking at him consideringly, as if trying to determine how upset he really is. She’s probably underestimating it. “I mean…” She purses her lips. “Basically everything you told me. I’m sorry—”
“Great, now they think I’m a terrible person, too,” Hyunjin bemoans. He dodges when she tries to hug him again. Walking behind them, the boyfriends have quieted and are just watching this exchange unfold. Hyunjin just danced his heart out onstage for two hours (on and off; all told, he only has about twenty minutes of stage-time) and yet he’s never felt more vulnerable than in this moment. He doesn’t know them; he can’t even keep their names straight. They only came to this stupid show because their stupid girlfriend made them. And yet they know the intimate, private details of Hyunjin’s trainwreck of a love life. Can’t they talk about the show? Can’t they talk about the process of putting something as labor-intensive as a full-scale ballet production together? About the symbolism, about the story, about—God damn it—the dancing? Hyuna opens the door for the rest of them all, and Hyunjin sighs as he goes through. He can’t wait to talk about Chan.
Once they’ve all settled in their booth, Hyuna has ordered for herself and Hyunjin, and Rich Boyfriend has ordered for Weird Boyfriend, Hyuna leans across the table, eyes aglint. “Okay. So. Fill us in. What’s the latest?”
Hyunjin glances between the boyfriends and Hyuna. “Um…” Somehow, knowing that Chan is a multi-hour flight away helps him breathe through his unsteadiness. There’s no risk Chan will walk in on this conversation; he looks around and confirms that Felix isn’t here, either. He can exhale. He’s been wound too tightly. This is a momentary loosening before the inevitable snap. “Well… I decided I have to tell him the truth. About who I am.”
“Just checking, do you mean not a real prostitute, or his ex’s best friend?” asks Rich Boyfriend seriously.
Hyunjin winces, and a moment later, so does Rich Boyfriend—Hyuna seems to have stomped on his foot. “Both,” Hyunjin answers after the worst of the searing guilt-pain has passed. As alien as it is to talk about all this out loud, in public, in person, it’s a little nice, too—to get it off his chest. “Basically, lately, it’s just been fucking hell trying to keep all this separate. I even had to change some of my performance dates so I wouldn’t have any overlap with Felix, since he’s coming to all Felix’s shows. And I honestly feel like I’m not giving anyone my all right now because I’m so stressed all the time about maintaining the façade. It’s not sustainable.” He rubs at his face for a second. “I know I got myself into this situation. Okay? I know that. And it is fucking hell. But—I’m still sad it’s ending soon.”
Weird Boyfriend pipes up: “Is it ending? How do you know?”
Hyunjin blinks at him. Hyuna’s expression doesn’t serve as a decoder. “Well, because—because I’m going to tell him the truth. And he won’t want to see me again after that.”
Rich Boyfriend and Hyuna exchange a look too quick for Hyunjin to track. “You said you’ve been seeing him twice a week lately?” Hyuna asks, and once Hyunjin nods, she shrugs. “I don’t know. It sounds like he could be really attached to you, too. Might not want to give up on it so easy.”
“If he is, he’d be attached to Paris, though,” Hyunjin explains, hollow. “Not me.”
“What’s Paris like?” Rich Boyfriend says.
“Narrow,” says Weird Boyfriend. “Lot of museums.”
Hyunjin grinds his knuckles into a tight spot on his thigh, under the table, and focuses on the aching sting rather than the unfolding inanity. “Confident,” he answers. “Worldly. Affectionate. Caring. Devoted to a fault. Stubborn.”
Hyuna and the boyfriends look between each other, and Hyuna shrugs. “That sounds a lot like you, minus the first thing.”
“No,” Hyunjin protests immediately, “no, that’s the problem—it’s all a persona—”
“Is it? Or does he just think it is?” Hyuna points out.
Hyunjin can’t get into this right now. He can’t let them resurrect hope that’s long since died of starvation. He stares wordlessly at the surface of the table, and doesn’t particularly blink as a couple of waiters arrive to pour water and sangria and clear space for their first round of arriving dishes. “I don’t even know how to tell him,” he murmurs. “I said I’d tell him, but I didn’t actually think about it before I said it. How do you even start to tell someone something like this?”
“You just start,” says Weird Boyfriend and crunches on a cucumber.
“Can we talk about something else for now?” Hyunjin attempts, mildly despairing. “Like, the ballet?”
Hyuna has been regarding Hyunjin with a discomfiting mixture of pity and fascination, and she nods decisively, raising her glass of sangria. “Oh, right, great point. Cheers, here’s to the prima ballerina!”
“I’m not—I’m a danseur noble,” Hyunjin grumbles, but permits himself one warming sip of sangria anyway.
“Anyway,” Hyuna says once she’s swallowed her big gulp, “we talked about something else, now we can go back to your scandy double life. When are you seeing him next?”
Hyunjin’s lips flatten. He doesn’t know what he expected. But, relenting, he answers, “Tuesday. He’s out of town right now. Business trip.” (Rich Boyfriend starts nodding knowingly.)
“And today’s… Thursday,” Hyuna says. Weird Boyfriend offers a hand so she can count the days out on her fingers. “Hey, you’ve got four whole days and most of a fifth to prepare yourself for this. You’ll be fine. You’re great at rehearsing.”
“Ha,” Hyunjin says miserably.
“I mean, what would you do?” Hyuna says, turning to Rich Boyfriend. “If it was you in this situation.”
“You mean if I were the Hyunjin, or if I were the…” Rich Boyfriend at least has the decency to pretend Hyuna didn’t tell him Chan’s name, pausing in fake thought. “…Client?”
“If you were Chan,” Hyuna encourages with a nod, and Hyunjin stifles a weary sigh.
Rich Boyfriend thinks harder, but probably for real this time. “Well, I just don’t know how I’d get into a situation like that in the first place,” he says, and over Hyuna and Weird Boyfriend’s groans of buzzkill, he continues, “But I think I’d hear him out. It’s been, what, six months? That’s a big investment of time.”
“And money,” Hyuna adds unhelpfully.
“That, too.” Rich Boyfriend takes a pensive bite of pan con tomate. “So, I definitely wouldn’t run away screaming, but again, I’m not the type to do that. I think I’d… want to know he had his reasons. That it hadn’t just been a fucked-up psychological experiment.”
“It’s not,” Hyunjin mumbles.
Hyuna ponders Rich Boyfriend’s answer, then nods, reaching across the table to touch Weird Boyfriend’s flower-tattooed hand. “How about you?”
Weird Boyfriend looks like he was about to fall asleep, but that’s possibly just his face. Blinking heavily, he says, “I’d probably have suspected something was up forever. Wouldn’t come as a huge surprise.”
“Really?” Hyunjin says, fidgeting. “Why?”
“Nothing’s what it looks like,” Weird Boyfriend says. “Nobody’s who they say they are. I’m used to it.”
“And I would be impressed by the world-building,” Hyuna cuts in. “But I’d also probably ask for my money back. Sorry.”
Hyunjin had to move it all into a separate closet a couple of months ago; his mattress had been growing unsleepable. Mutely, considering these responses, he nods. That’s two votes for a neutral-positive ending—one vote for neutral-negative. It’s not what he’d expected. He’s sure they’re just being nice to him since he’s so very sad. He puts a pillow over hope’s face and presses down. Burns it at the root. Clips its wings. Even though it’s dead—its presence lingers, spectral. He sips his sangria again, and tastes the words: I haven’t been completely honest with you, and I hope you understand that my intention was never to hurt you. This has gotten so out of hand because I care about you so much more than I ever knew I could care about anyone. I love you. I’m sorry. Redundant, that last. Two sips of sangria and suddenly he understands why Chan apologizes so much. Exhausted, threadbare, he has to rub away a burgeoning tear. He’s so glad Hyuna came to see his show—he’s so glad she doesn’t hate him. When all of this is over, at least he’s got one person who won’t hate him. Or maybe three people. “Thank you,” he says, finally speaking up, and looks at each of them in turn. “Really, thank you, Hui, Hyojong, Hyuna. I really appreciate—everything.”
Hyuna’s face crinkles up into a smile, and she reaches to push at his arm. “Don’t mention it.”
“Also,” says Weird Boyfriend, “actually, I’m Hyojong and he’s Hui.”
“Don’t mention that, either,” Hyuna scolds. “I was just going to let him have it.”
Hyunjin’s blushing, Hyunjin’s trying to make excuses, but—for the first time this week, Hyunjin feels something like okay. He’s not holding his breath that it’ll last.
***
This Sunday night is the only time he and Felix get to dance a show together—until the still-pending finale—and it’s so fun to be with him. In the rush of everything, Hyunjin had nearly forgotten, but it all comes rushing back full force when he and Felix are straightening each other’s bobby pins, doing each other’s foundation touch-ups, mirroring each other’s poses in the wings, five minutes left to opening curtain. It’s a shame he had to change his dates, has had no choice but to avoid this; won’t he and Felix make the prettiest matching set on this stage? Where Felix is delicate, Hyunjin is strong—where Felix is ethereal, Hyunjin is grounded. He can already imagine them a few years—not too many—down the line, the principals in this same show, Felix as the Prince, Hyunjin as the Swan. How they could take the world by storm. It’s a delirious fantasy, one almost too big to hold in his heart, and it makes him have to stifle giddy giggles that make Felix go, “What?”
“Nothing,” Hyunjin says, slinging his arm around Felix’s shoulders and squeezing tightly. “Just—merde.”
“Merde,” Felix answers, beaming, his own arm slipping through to grab onto Hyunjin’s waist. His teeth glitter in the half-dark, and one of the makeup artists put a couple of rhinestones on a couple of his freckles, making him so alien-elfin that Hyunjin almost can’t comprehend his face, even from so up close.
The orchestra has finished tuning and the house lights are going down. The audience is quieting. Felix turns to look out onto the stage, and Hyunjin looks at Felix, sweet Felix, just a moment longer, before doing the same. And then they go, together.
It’s easy to imagine it’s all for him. The music—Svetlana Dmitrievna would eviscerate Hyunjin for even thinking along these lines, but what if Tchaikovsky wrote this knowing Hyunjin Hwang would dance it someday? The applause. The lights. The flowers. He’s only in a handful of scenes, but he can feel how many eyes are on him; the fact that Felix is there, too, somehow only enhances the effect. They’re the brightest points, the twin centers of the galaxy. He loves dancing with Felix. He wishes they could do this all the time. He hopes Svetlana Dmitrievna’s watching closely; he hopes, for once, she’s proud.
Intermission never feels like a full fifteen minutes. Hyunjin sips water so slowly he may as well just rub it on his lips, and Felix blots his brow of sweat. They don’t talk much. The girls are all collapsed on the floor like so many crumpled sheets of paper, and Hyunjin would be right there with them if he weren’t worried about an awkward slouch-pose leaving his torso—which will be bare for Act III—with an unsightly crease. He’s been so perfect lately, and it’s a streak he doesn’t want to see broken.
The part with the swans, as Hyojong put it, is Hyunjin’s favorite, too. He loves dancing through a dream sequence; it’s where he’s best. Neither human nor man, swan nor shadow, he curves and leaps, and when it’s over, he thinks, I could have done that forever, even as his bones groan in protest. Felix is wincing, too, as they await their final scene, and Hyunjin holds his hand in small, silent comfort. It’s the paradox of ballet, the top of the mountain where Sisyphus is pushing his boulder despite knowing it’s about to fall: that they all wish they could do it forever, but it’s such a flash in the pan, such an exception to the rule of life. Even wanting makes it impossible. Their bodies won’t last forever regardless of what their hearts do. Still—the music swells—Hyunjin stands tall and draws in a breath that fills each of his molecules, as he starts to enter the stage for the grand finale of the show—they want it, stubborn and defiant in the face of impermanence.
After, the locker room is so unglamorous. Swearing like sailors and unwrapping plasma-sodden sweated-grey bandages. Chattering loudly to make up for the two hours of speaking only with their bodies. Hyunjin washes his face while Felix runs outside to make sure it’s not raining. Hyunjin is exhausted, yes, but he’s not unhappy, for once. He loves the way he danced. It was so nice to dance with Felix. His reflection is clean and shiny. Felix said something about maybe doing dinner, before he scampered away. Hyunjin smiles at himself, then turns away to finish packing up his bag so he’ll be ready to go when Felix comes back. How selfish of Hyunjin—to enjoy things when he knows he won’t get to keep them. But he can’t help himself. He never could.
Felix runs back in. Smiling huge and frenetic. “Are you almost ready to go?”
“Yeah, just about,” Hyunjin says. He yawns. “Is it raining?”
“Yes, so Chan’s heading to the resto already, we should hurry,” Felix urges.
“Oh, okay.” Hyunjin’s bag slips right out of his hands. It clatters on the floor, makeup brushes spilling everywhere. He stares at Felix. He knows he misheard. It can’t be. It can’t. “Wait, sorry—what?”
“Chan’s here,” Felix explains. Out of breath, smiling so wide it’s eclipsing his whole sunny face. “He was out of town for work, but he changed his flight so he could see the show tonight. He surprised me outside just now! I had no idea! God, he’s always been terrible with secrets, I can’t believe he didn’t let it slip!”
“Chan’s here?” Hyunjin repeats. His hands can’t reach to pick his bag back up. No part of him can do anything. “Chan—is here?”
“Yes, not literally here here since he went on to the resto to save us a table, but he saw the show and everything, yeah,” Felix grins. “Come on, come on, hurry up, I told him you were coming. You’re finally going to meet him properly, ahh! Finally!”
There’s a roaring in Hyunjin’s ears. Black spots pervading his field of vision, edges of everything shimmering gold, narrowing like a vignette. If he doesn’t take a sip of water and sit down, he’ll faint, he’ll fall, he’ll hit his head, he’ll die and wake up six months ago, blissfully asking Felix Who was that dropping you off? and not caring about the answer. What did he do, in a past life? How many people did he kill, how many lives did he ruin? What did he do to deserve this? He’s so panicked that his whole body’s gone ice-cold, and he’s taking so long to move that Felix clicks his tongue impatiently and reaches down to stuff and grab Hyunjin’s bag for him. Hyunjin stumbles after him.
And he’d been happy. And he’d been calm. And he’d danced without a care in the world—lulled into a false sense of security by Chan’s purported distance. But Chan had been there the whole time. The whole time, Hyunjin’s greatest fear was unfolding, and he was absolutely none the wiser. Sisyphus, looking up at the mountain and thinking, maybe I’ll get it this time. The swans flying toward the dawn and hoping this is the day their curse is broken.
By the time they’ve made it to the restaurant where Chan is allegedly waiting, Hyunjin has swallowed his own vomit at least twice. Their slim arms didn’t make for very good umbrellas, so they’re both a little water-logged, and Hyunjin’s hoping for rapid-onset tuberculosis, or to drown in half an inch of rain. He’s past panic. He’s just blind. He’s not even shaking anymore, impervious to the chill because his veins are frozen solid. Felix says, “This way,” and guides him, and Hyunjin should have run, he should have hid, because there’s Chan, and it’s too late to run now, it’s too late to hide. Felix has Hyunjin’s hand in one of his, and the other’s popping up to wave to Chan. Chan pops up out of his chair to wave back, and then his eyes move. And his hand stops mid-air.
“This place is so cute, thank you for finding it! Ah, I seriously can’t believe you, how could you do this to me, since when have you been sneaky,” Felix is saying, bubbling over, giggling, but Chan’s staring, Hyunjin’s flayed, and neither one of them is saying a word or moving a muscle. Two eyes meeting; too much to explain. Wrong place, wrong time. Wrong move.
Show’s over. Lights back up. Ugly faces revealed when pretty hands scrub makeup away. “You must be the famous Chan,” Hyunjin says, hoarse. Takes plausible deniability by the throat and squeezes till it’s dead. He can’t lie anymore. Can’t pretend he doesn’t know who Chan is; can’t pretend Felix doesn’t know Hyunjin knows who Chan is. If he’s being honest, he may as well be honest. “Felix talks about you—all the time.”
Chan’s wide eyes. He should out Hyunjin then and there. He will. Hyunjin can see five seconds into the future, and he’s seeing overturned tables and shattered glassware, teartracks on Felix’s cheeks, Chan’s throat raw with yelling. There’s a motion, and he flinches, but the motion is actually—Chan extending a hand. So careful. Like approaching a wild creature. With his wide eyes and his careful, nervous smile, he wants to shake Hyunjin’s hand—improbably, a touch they’ve never done before, even after everything, all the ways their bodies have met until today. “Likewise,” Chan says, so gently, slow like in a dream himself. He doesn’t say Hyunjin; it’s like he can’t. “It’s an honor to finally put a name to the face.”
“Isn’t it the other way around?” Felix says, nose wrinkling, but Chan doesn’t react—he’s shaking Hyunjin’s hand now. A clasp of palm to palm. No cash between. The touch of him—in front of Felix!—makes Hyunjin want to weep. But Chan lets go quickly. He looks away, quickly. He goes around to pull Felix’s chair out for him. He does nothing to Hyunjin’s.
Hyunjin, as always, in the end, has to help himself. He sits. Felix is between them, but it’s a round table, there’s not much buffer. Chan, in one eye’s peripheral vision. Felix, in the other. That hand Chan extended to him wasn’t holding an olive branch; it wasn’t even holding a poisoned dagger with which to stab himself. It had just been empty. Hyunjin’s eyes are fixed on the menu, words blurred to illegibility, but he thinks he can feel Chan looking at him. He knows better, now, than to assume that’s a good thing.
Chan had seen him dance. He’d watched the whole show. But he’d been so shocked to see Hyunjin walk in. What had he been thinking? That it was such an extraordinary coincidence that Paris, his Paris, was in the same company as Felix? Chan didn’t know the other blond dancer onstage was that very same Hyunjin that Felix has been telling him about. Of course he didn’t. Maybe—if Hyunjin hadn’t walked through that door, if he’d been someone else—Chan would have asked Felix about him; maybe, in another life, it could have truly been a coincidence, the happiest accident. The sugar-sweet kiss of fate. Not this one. Hyunjin blinks at the menu to push back the sudden film of bitter tears blurring his vision even further, and tries to ignore the voice at the back of his head plaintively saying—I wonder what he thought of me.
“I’ve decided,” Felix announces, dropping his menu. “And honestly, I’m starving.”
“Great, yeah, get whatever you want,” Chan says—absently, Hyunjin thinks.
His own tongue’s frozen. He won’t be able to talk or eat. He risks a glance up, across the table at Felix, who’s still pink-cheeked and giddy at Chan’s presence. He can’t look directly at Chan, but obliquely, he sees that Chan’s smiling, too. Without looking directly, Hyunjin won’t be able to tell if it’s a genuine smile or not. Better that he doesn’t know. And Felix—aren’t they supposed to be friends, too? How can he just sit there laughing and asking Chan how his business trip went and exuding pure joy, with not even the faintest glimmer of awareness that Hyunjin has died inside a thousand times in the last five minutes? Why isn’t he noticing that Chan and Hyunjin, two people he’s wanted to bring together for months, aren’t saying a word to each other? For the first time, Hyunjin can’t help but wonder if Felix’s happiness is so bright that it outshines all else. If Felix isn’t merely unobservant or tactful—if actually, he’s selfish.
A waiter has come, and Chan hasn’t spoken to Hyunjin once since they all sat down. Incredible—just a few days ago, Hyunjin had felt so hopeful, so optimistic about a potential future, a future that had once seemed completely impossible. A flash of rage at Hyuna and her boyfriends for feeding into his delusions. It could only end like this. Not even with a whimper—with cold silence. He has to perk himself up marginally to order the first thing he sees on the menu, knowing he won’t eat a bite anyway, and he reflexively smiles as the waiter takes his menu away, and in doing so, accidentally makes eye contact with Chan, who had also been smiling, but both their faces drop quickly. Horrible, to sit across a table from him and not be able to touch him, to not be able to speak honestly to him, even though this, arguably, is the closest Hyunjin has been to honest in all these months.
“Should we get some wine, too?” Felix suggests. “To commemorate this very special night?”
“A bottle of your house red, please,” Chan adds to the waiter, and—through the fog of shame and horror—Hyunjin’s proud. Chan didn’t second-guess; he didn’t ask around. He just acted. I taught him that.
“I’m so glad you came,” Felix says to Chan, softly. He turns and looks at Hyunjin. “And I’m so glad we finally got to dance together.”
“Yes,” Hyunjin says, even softer. “I am, too.”
Felix takes a deep breath. “You’re both, like, basically the most important people in my life right now.” Hyunjin has to breathe, too, to surmount the pain. Felix’s expression has gone a little wistful as he looks between them, and Hyunjin tries to mirror him—even he can see the reflection is skewed. Even as Felix reaches up, over the table, little hands palm-up, and Hyunjin and Chan both move in synch—first time all night—to take the hand that’s offered. Hyunjin tries—he really tries—not to feel Chan’s energy, as if Felix is just a conduit. Chan’s not looking at him, anyway. Felix continues, “This feels a bit like fate, doesn’t it? All of us together. I was looking for the right moment to do this, but it just… fell into my lap.”
Hyunjin and Chan both pause, and Chan’s the one to lean forward, brows pulling together in a frown. “To do what, sorry?”
“I have something to tell you,” Felix says. His freckled cheeks are pale. He’s twisting his fingers in the edge of the tablecloth, looking down to watch. “Both of you. I didn’t know when to do it—or how—and to be honest, I’ve kind of put it off because I didn’t want it to be a whole production—but this is really the perfect moment.”
“What is it?” Hyunjin says. A shiver down his spine; uncanny, how it’s suddenly six months ago, Felix coming into rehearsal ghostly-white and uncomfortable because Chan had just confessed to him. What else had Hyunjin’s guesses been at the time—that he’d been sick? That something was really wrong? “Felix?”
Felix clears his throat. He’s smiling, just a little, but with an undeniable sadness. He opens his mouth, and he says, “I’ve received an invitation for a full-time coryphée position at the Australian Ballet. In Melbourne. Starting in three weeks, so just after our finale. And—and—I’ve accepted it.”
Hold for one beat, hold for two. Hyunjin moves first; his hand, suddenly shaking, pulls back from Felix’s—he hugs around himself, tight, to keep from bolting. Across the table, Chan’s still gripping on. There’s a dull roar, like a seashell pressed to his ear, which builds into a ringing that blocks out all the other sound of the restaurant. Felix’s eyes are wide, shell-shocked as if he’s not the one that just dropped a bomb. Hyunjin’s eyes are filling with tears as if he’s just been hit. Chan’s eyes—Hyunjin can’t see the shades of them, because they’re fixed on Felix.
Their food comes. Nobody moves. Or speaks. Felix says, a wobble in his tone, “Somebody say something.”
Hyunjin starts to cry. This is, easily and objectively, the worst night of his life. He knew he’d never be able to keep both Chan and Felix; to lose them both at once—God, his previous reincarnation must have torched civilizations. He feels a touch: Felix’s hand rubbing his arm, and Hyunjin is too numb, too weak, to either push him away or lean into him. Across the table, Chan—sounding helpless, lost, like a child—is saying, “When—when are you leaving? Are you really going back home?”
“Three weeks,” Felix says. His hand still on Hyunjin’s arm. Curled around his elbow; the way they always walk into class. Hyunjin has to cover his face with his palms tightly and squeeze. “Yes, I am. You know it’s, like, only an hour’s flight from Syd. It’ll be nice and close.”
“Close,” Hyunjin repeats, wet, verging on hysterical. “How far is it from here?”
“This is a good thing,” Felix says—somehow equal parts gentle and firm. “It’s a huge promotion, Hyunjin, you know that.”
“Yeah, what’s—” God fucking bless him, the most selfless man in the world, completely incapable of standing up for himself even when he’s been beaten to a pulp. Chan is trying so hard to put a positive spin on this. “What’s the, um, what did you say it was? Cory…?”
“Coryphée,” Felix says. The pressure of his hand is suddenly gone. Hyunjin misses it already. “So right now, we’re both corps de ballet, which is the lowest, general tier. Highest tier is principal artist. There’s, like, a whole hierarchy of it, and it’s so rare for someone to move up it this quickly.”
“It’s very rare,” Hyunjin confirms from behind his hands.
“Then—” An exhale from Chan. Hyunjin won’t imagine whether or not Chan is looking at him. Checking on him. He knows he isn’t, anyway. It’s all about Felix, now, and Hyunjin understands. “Then that’s so great, Felix. Seriously. Congratulations.”
Felix exhales sharply, too, all in a rush. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m actually… really excited. The part I was most worried about was telling you two.”
Hyunjin can’t take it anymore; he lowers his hands to cover just his mouth, eyes aghast and overspilling on display. “I’m sorry,” he says, muffled. Still crying. Like a faucet with a broken handle. “I’m happy for you. This is just—I’m really gonna miss you, Felix.”
“Hyunjin,” Felix says, his dollface crumpling.
“What am I going to do without you,” Hyunjin says, and has to cover his face completely again so he can cry it out in peace. Had he known they were this close? Had he taken Felix for granted? The first few months they’d known each other, before the advent of Chan, had been pure bliss. A daily idyll, a haven where he could hide from all the pain and disappointment and brutality of rehearsal. Now, he’s spent so much time hiding from Felix that he didn’t even notice this impending change. That he couldn’t even enjoy the good times before they ended.
“You’ll be great,” Felix says, sounding almost like he’s pleading. “And I’ll call you every day.”
Hyunjin feels the words time difference forming in his throat, but he can’t even spit them up, he’s still weeping. He just nods.
“And I know you’ve been homesick,” Chan’s voice says, softly.
“God, so bad.” A little laugh from Felix. “Being here, just—it feels a bit like an experiment that’s failed. I’m so homesick, all the time. Hyunjin, you’ve made it so fucking bearable. Chan—” Overcome with emotion, he has to stop for a moment, presumably to compose himself. “Chan, you’ve given me a piece of home right here. But this is—I mean, the offer felt like a dream come true.”
Could this be a dream? A living nightmare? Hyunjin peeks through his fingers, humiliation about letting Chan see him like this—not that it matters how Chan sees him anymore—starting to kick in. Felix is taking a big gulp of his wine. Chan is watching him with an absolutely stomach-churning blend of tenderness and grief. He’s being the bigger person, as always, even though he should be the one sobbing and stamping his feet and beating his chest and begging Felix not to go. Of course Hyunjin is happy for Felix—he doesn’t want him to be trapped, homesick, sad—but this is undeniably a selfish action. Concerned only with his own life and career. But Hyunjin has to hand it to him: somehow, against all odds, but once again, Felix has managed to upstage Hyunjin, even after the big reveal Hyunjin thought would turn everything inside out forever.
Not that everything isn’t inside out. Their food is all growing cold; Chan and Felix are chatting—strained, but earnest—about the long flight ahead of Felix, how he has so many boxes to pack. Hyunjin can’t stop crying, although it’s more of a drizzle than a downpour now. Is he the selfish one? (Yes.) Does Chan hate him? (Yes.) Felix deserves every good thing in the world; Hyunjin could never hope for more than what he’s gotten—namely, play-acting and table scraps. Never something lasting. Never something real. It serves him fucking right.
Numb, he doesn’t notice as time passes, but somehow, out of the blue, after five minutes or two hours, Chan and Felix are moving as if to leave. Hyunjin rouses back to life as if out of cryosleep, wiping his eyes and standing, too. If a plan was made for the rest of the evening, he must have missed it; it clearly doesn’t include him, anyway. They all head toward the door. Felix in the middle. Chan ahead. Hyunjin pathetically bringing up the rear.
And then, too late, divine intervention. “Oh!” Felix says. “I forgot my jacket!” And he turns and darts back into the restaurant, leaving Chan and Hyunjin alone.
Hyunjin freezes, and he thinks he sees that Chan does, too. Suddenly alone. Their most natural mode, until now, when it’s so alien. How many seconds does he have—five, ten, fifteen? Long enough at least to say—if nothing else—that he meant every word he told him, when it counted? Hyunjin’s teeth are chattering almost too hard to speak. He turns, so he can keep a teary eye on the restaurant, but he’s facing Chan now, more or less. “Chan,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I can explain.”
Chan is refusing to look at him. He’s looking somewhere near Hyunjin’s shins, gaze a little unfocused in a way it wasn’t, when they were still with Felix—like the slipping-off of a mask. There’s an unfamiliar set to his jaw, an unfamiliar angle to his nod. “I think I’m just,” Chan says slowly, “going to drive Felix home.”
Hyunjin waits for an and. At least for a but. None comes. He croaks, “Okay. I—”
“Got it,” Felix pants, bouncing back up. He collides with Chan’s arm. Knocks the air right out of the already-choking conversation. That hollow look in Chan’s eyes is gone like it was never there in the first place; he returns Felix’s smile, and then he heads to his car without looking back. But Hyunjin can’t even watch him vanish, because Felix, pressing up to wrap him in a hug so tight, is blocking his view, and whispering, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Hyunjin whispers again.
“I love you.”
“You, too.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
What choice do I have? Hyunjin thinks, and tells his final lie: “Yes.”
***
> Hi
> I’m really sorry if it’s weird for me to be reaching out like this. And I completely get if I missed the boat. Please feel free to block or tell me to fuck off or whatever. No pressure to respond.
> If you’re not performing, how about here tonight? Usual time? Only if you want, of course https://goo.gl/maps/3hMTGh226LpLD0612
> I really hope you’re okay and that I didn’t hurt your feelings by being such a clam at dinner. I just froze up and needed some time to think. This is a lot to process but I really want to talk about things. See you at 8?
***
> I’m here now, table under the archway
> Are you coming?
***
> I guess you’re not, so I’m heading home. Will I see you on Friday? Can we talk then?
> Just talk
> I’d hate to be pushy or annoying, so. Let me know either way.
> Hope you’re okay
***
Like the look in Chan’s eyes, Hyunjin’s life goes back to how it was before, as if nothing ever happened. He has no proof of Chan; no evidence. Nothing of his. Nothing of him. All Hyunjin has now is what he had before: morning class, a break for a light lunch, afternoon rehearsal. Hair/makeup/costume, waiting in the wings, perform, if he’s on. Otherwise, go home for pilates and silence. It’s a quiet life, a fine one. He has everything he needs.
He dances well enough. He’s scheduled to be in the finale. He helps Felix pack a box or two. He doesn’t really think about Chan, in the same way a bird with a clipped wing looks away from its brothers in the sky. After Hyunjin doesn’t show on Friday, either, Chan doesn’t text again, and to Hyunjin, the message is clear. They’re back to how they were. It was all just a dream. He’s awake now.
At the closing performances, Hyunjin dances until he’s bleeding, his last reserves of care. How he’ll miss the twin Swan Lakes. They’ve given his days so much meaning. The stage is strewn with flowers and everyone is swarming Felix, engulfing his tiny body, and he’s laughing and crying in the eye of the storm. Hyunjin joins in, too, sweaty and swirled into the maelstrom, letting it sweep him away.
He takes Felix out for one last lunch, for old times’ sake. They’re both smiling and bright. It’s a beautiful Friday. They tab through the profiles of the other dancers of the coryphée on the Australian Ballet’s website and gossip about who they think will be mean and who will be nice. Hyunjin’s cheeks are sore from smiling, and Felix kisses him there, slightly sweet from the peach bellinis they shared. He leaves.
And then it’s back to rehearsal. A new dancer at Felix’s usual spot on the barre. Svetlana Dmitrievna mostly ignores Hyunjin. Selfies from Felix on the beach, because it’s summer in Australia. Confirmation that the meanest-faced dancer on the website is, in fact, the meanest. He’s made some friends. He goes to clubs. He’s happy to be home.
Hyunjin lives as before. He lives by himself and for himself. He calls Hyuna at most once a week, his mother from time to time. He dyes his hair back to its natural shade—dark, mousy.
The company’s next ballet will be Giselle; Hyunjin practices an additional two hours after every daily practice for auditions, which are still a month away. He doesn’t talk to the new dancer. He doesn’t go anywhere except the studio. His only friend is half a planet away. No distractions. His dancing is lighter, better. His life is lighter this way, too. Unburdened by sentiment.
When Hyunjin’s waking up, Felix’s day is ending. Vice versa. They can talk or text for thirty, maybe forty minutes total before one of them has to sleep or work. Every day it’s a little less. Felix is busy. Hyunjin is, too. Often they misalign; Hyunjin’s phone will be in his bag while he’s getting extra stretching in, so he’ll miss Felix’s call. Or Felix will be out on the town when Hyunjin’s walking to the studio and he’ll text back something typo-ridden and incoherent. Two lives in parallel, intersecting less and less. This is independence. Hyunjin is lighter.
Hyunjin is the same as he’s always been. Felix sends him a picture of a lizard. Hyunjin sends back a mirror selfie, doing stretches.
He eats salads with plain dressing. He fixes his own sink when it has a leak. He slightly strains a muscle in his calf and massages it himself. On Fridays, he sleeps early.
***
Before bed one night, he texts Felix:
anything fun going on this weekend?
Felix texts back, hours later:
> Yessss!!!!!
> Beach again 💕💕
> Hot date toooooo 😜
omg
good luck hottie
> You’re up so late!!!
just woke up to get some water
> Omg that 3am water hits different
ikr
how’s ur date ???
> HAWT
> But not really a date heheh…
> Or is it 🙊
> Wanna see the fit
duh
> [photo]
> CB says hi!!!!
The photo is unambiguous. Lovely little Felix in a lovely little tank top. Face blurred with his happiness. A strong, muscular arm holding steady around his waist.
Hyunjin has been skimming the surface of all his own feelings. If he went any deeper, he would drown. Now, he has no choice; it pulls him; it pulls him under; he can’t crest the wave, he can’t come up for air, it’s filling his lungs and choking him and he curls up in his bed and pulls the covers over his face and sobs himself to pieces.
He knew. He knew Chan wouldn’t go after him—even if he’d wanted to, he’s just not that sort of person—but to see him going after Felix—after everything—but why wouldn’t he? Hyunjin wasn’t anything to him. Paris was a plaything. A diversion from what really mattered to Chan. He served a function. Now used, he can safely be discarded. And he has been, while Chan and Felix live the rest of their days in happiness and harmony, back home.
This whole time, Hyunjin has cast himself as the villain: preying both on Felix and on Chan, just waiting in the wings to swoop in and steal Felix’s treasure, poison his happiness, lock Felix out to force him and Chan apart, so he could hoard Chan all for himself and gloat. But he’s been the white swan all along. He’s been left to die in a little fall of rain while the usurper keeps his love. He’s been so good—he’s been making do so well—not thinking about Chan, not crying, not wishing, not praying for a different life—he can’t anymore, he can’t pretend anymore. He hates Felix. He hates himself more.
When did Chan go? Did they fly out together, has Chan been with him all along, does their buzzer say CB/FL or Bang & Lee? When did Felix realize his feelings for Chan were more than just friendly after all? How easily did Chan forgive him everything? How happy was he that Felix started to thaw? Have they fucked yet? Was it better? Did Chan tell Felix the whole story of what happened with him and “Paris”? Do they laugh about Hyunjin together? No—they don’t think about him at all.
***
Waking up in agony. The unimaginable weight of each of his limbs as he lifts himself from bed and automatically goes through the routine of dressing, fueling, walking to the studio. If he can help it, Hyunjin abhors crying in public. Because he’s beautiful, people invariably try to comfort him, but he doesn’t want comfort from a stranger who doesn’t understand. However, he can’t help it, he can’t stop it, there’s nothing he can do. A woman at a bus stop gives him an entire pack of tissues. A school-aged boy nervously leaps out of his way, and yells after him, “It gets better!” Even Svetlana Dmitrievna says, “Hvan, if you injured—”
“I’m not,” Hyunjin says. He swipes his hand over his face. What’s the lesson learned? The moral of this story? That desire is the root of all suffering, that there are dreams that cannot be? That he’s fundamentally unloveable? He dances. His reflection spins in a film of seawater. There’s a raw-edged hole where his heart used to be. His heart’s across the ocean. Half a planet away. Loving someone else.
***
He doesn’t mean to, but he pretty much stops talking to Felix. He just can’t bear it, but he’s not angry. What Felix has done is no more of a betrayal than what Hyunjin did to him first. He can’t even blame Chan. Chan finally has everything he ever wanted. Hyunjin hopes their apartment is nice, and that it burns down. He hopes Chan has a job he loves, and that his coworkers all hate Felix. He hopes their mothers get in a friendship-obliterating fight, and that Felix gets a non-permanent, non-career-ending injury that means he has to miss a few crucial weeks of rehearsal, and that all their plants wither and die, and that they’re very, very happy.
Chan was never his. That’s what he has to remind himself of every day. Even when he was at his most deliriously happy—days it physically pains him to remember, how they’d wake up together, how sometimes, Chan would be awake already, and how he’d light up to see Hyunjin’s eyes opening, how he’d lean in to kiss him before Hyunjin was even fully conscious—Chan was never his. Neither to keep, nor to lose. He’d been too good at selling his fantasy; he’d bought into it too fully, all by himself, while Chan always kept one foot firmly planted in reality. Hyunjin should spend all the cash on a car and drive it off a cliff. They’d both be even happier then.
He’s too much of a coward, though. He just keeps living his simple, empty, solitary, lonely, pathetic, miserable existence—calling it a life anymore would be a stretch. Rehearsal. Salad. Rehearsal. Home. Sleep. Pilates. Rehearsal. Salad. Rehearsal. Home. Sleep. Repeat. Do hollow things break, or do they just collapse in on themselves one day? He’ll just have to wait and see.
***
Hyunjin always wakes up early on Saturdays, since he sleeps early Fridays. It’s like he’s expecting it, although of course he isn’t.
A stretch routine and grapefruit juice. Giselle playing from his phone so he can go through the motions while he’s doing nothing. Actually, he’s darning a hole in a leotard that used to be his favorite. He should just throw it away. He bites the thread to snap it, sinks the needle into his couch cushion for temporary safekeeping, and stands, the leo crumpled in his hand, and there’s a knock on the door.
The leotard gets to live one more minute. Hyunjin drops it on the couch, then crosses to open up, making sure the chain’s hooked on before he does so. Conversations with strangers—never something he’s ever necessarily enjoyed even under normal circumstances—have grown completely unbearable lately, so he’d like to keep this interaction minimal. Once upon a time, he would have worried that opening the door with the chain bolted would make him seem rude. Now, he doesn’t care about anything. He just opens the door, but he’s still protected.
He sees the flowers first. Vibrant pinks, reds, alien shapes, quivering baby’s breath, inflorescences so lush it’s surreal. It’s Chan holding the flowers, but only in Hyunjin’s dreams, and he did wake up a mere hour or so ago, he could still be asleep. He blinks and patiently waits for Chan to be replaced with a mailman. It doesn’t happen. The flowers are still there. And so is Chan, holding them so the plastic crinkles against his chest, and his face, his lovely beloved face, is unwavering. His hair has a slight curl to it. He missed a spot shaving. It’s really him.
And there’s that double-blink when his train of thought is abruptly derailed. Chan’s jaw drops infinitesimally, and he says, “Your hair!”
“What are you doing here,” Hyunjin breathes, a consumptive rattle. Feverish, flushed, one hand moving to touch his own hair. The second time Chan is seeing him for real, and it’s just as blindsiding as the first. Even if he’d had time to prepare, he wouldn’t have known what to do. “When did you even get back?”
Chan’s eyebrows go up. From nervous to amused. So expressive, Chan. Heart on his sleeve, Hyunjin has thought since the first time they met. It’s really him. “Back?” Chan repeats. “Where was I?”
“Well—Australia.”
Chan’s eyebrows go higher. “When was I in Australia?”
“Before you got back!”
“Hyunjin,” Chan says, gently, and it stops Hyunjin like a hand raised in the air. “Can I come in?”
Hyunjin shuts the door. With shaking fingers, he fumbles the chain out of its bracket, wrenches the door back open fully, what if he’s not there anymore, if Hyunjin’s lost what little remained of his mind, but there he waits, looking bewildered. “Please,” Hyunjin says, stepping aside. “Please come in.”
“Oh,” Chan says. He drops his head for a moment—there’s the faint hint of a smile, on the dear curve of his cheek. “I thought you just—okay. Thanks.” He comes in.
Hyunjin’s staring. He can’t help it. Chan’s looking around his apartment—Chan is in his apartment. Still holding the flowers. Still there. Helplessly, Hyunjin closes the door; he latches the chain. Selfish. “How,” Hyunjin starts carefully, “did you know where I live?”
“Felix told me,” Chan says. Flowers cradled, he removes his shoes, and then walks further inward, so distracted it’s like he can’t help himself, either. “He was… really happy I asked. D’you know what he said?”
“What.”
“That he kinda thought we’d be perfect for each other.” Chan smiles a little as he leans in to look at Hyunjin’s horribly sentimental shelf of childhood ballet trophies. “Mm. I always wondered how you lived. This is so—”
“Chan, what the fuck,” Hyunjin chokes. “What do you mean, Felix told you—what are you doing here—are you and Felix not—together now? Properly?”
Alarmed, Chan turns around. The flowers rustle slightly; one petal falls to Hyunjin’s rug. “What? No, God, no. And anyway, he’s seeing some guy called Changbin. He didn’t tell you?” Then: “Whoa, are you all right? Here. Let’s sit.”
Hyunjin blindly lets Chan help him to the couch, where he collapses like his strings have been cut. Immediately stabs himself on the needle, struggles equally blindly to dig it out of the cushion, sticks it haphazardly into his sewing kit, tosses everything aside, sinks his head into his trembling hands. A light, warm touch on his back: Chan’s hand. Steady, solid. Hyunjin can feel his worry radiating into him. Chan shouldn’t have to worry about him. Hyunjin tries—largely fails—to take steady breaths, and get his heart working once again.
CB. The muscular arm. Not Chan Bang. Some guy. Called Changbin. Chan didn’t go to Australia; he hasn’t been with Felix this whole time. Hyunjin has been making himself sick with grief and anger over an apocalyptic scenario he simply made up. He’s dizzy with embarrassment, confusion, relief—but just because Chan isn’t with Felix doesn’t mean Hyunjin now has a chance. Quickly, dizzying himself further, he raises his head and looks at Chan, who’s sitting close, looking concerned. His hand is still on Hyunjin’s back, and the flowers are in his lap. Hyunjin swallows; his throat clicks. “Who are the flowers for?”
“You,” Chan says, soft. Unsmiling. He takes his hand away from Hyunjin, but only to move the bouquet, carefully place it in Hyunjin’s arms instead.
Hyunjin, reflexive, cowed, lifts them, takes a faltering lungful of their sweet scent. Peeks at Chan—still so serious—over their tops. “Thank you,” Hyunjin says.
A slight softening of Chan’s composed expression, a little approving nod. “I’m sorry they’re late.”
“Late?...”
“I came to the closing performance,” Chan explains. So much for breathing; Hyunjin clutches the flowers tighter, eyes wider. “I should have brought flowers for you then. But I didn’t, because I thought you wouldn’t want me to be there.”
“If that’s what you thought,” Hyunjin whispers, “then why are you here?”
Chan’s quiet for a moment. He’s looking at the flowers at first. Then his eyes flicker up, catching Hyunjin’s. “Because I wanted to see you. And I thought you’d want me to go after what I wanted.”
Hyunjin is so fucking confused. “Chan,” he says, has to take a pause to swallow again and breathe. He should ask again why Chan came, what he wants, if Hyunjin hasn’t already given him everything he has. He should tell Chan to leave, because Hyunjin’s not what he thinks, he’s no good. Instead, he says, “Have you been sleeping?”
“Not really,” Chan says, plainly. “Have you been okay?”
Hyunjin turns the bouquet in his hands so he can look at all the different blooms. “Not really,” he echoes.
“If you want me to leave,” Chan starts, low and serious again.
“I don’t,” Hyunjin rushes, “I don’t want you to leave. I’m so sorry I stood you up. Twice. I just couldn’t face you. I didn’t want to see how much you hated me after what I did to you, and I didn’t know how to explain myself without making you hate me more, and I don’t—I don’t know why you’d want to see me in the first place. Or why you’re here now. Please don’t leave.”
Chan twitches like he’d been about to reach out, but had stopped himself. He says, “I won’t, if you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t. I just said I don’t.”
“Okay, okay.” Chan’s lips pull to the side, just briefly. Wry. “You also said next time you saw me, you’d tell me who you were. Seen you twice now, since. Still… waiting on that.”
“I’m—Felix’s friend,” Hyunjin says. He can’t handle it, if Chan’s going to be funny. He stands, jerky motions, and crosses to the kitchen to find a vase for the flowers. “My real name’s Hyunjin. You know that. Hyunjin Hwang. I’ve been dancing since I was four. Felix and I met around a year ago when he joined the company. He always gets better roles than I do and everybody likes him more. And I’m jealous and bitter and vindictive, so I tried to steal his boyfriend because I didn’t think he deserved you, and I guess I thought I did. That’s who I am.”
Silence, punctuated by snips as Hyunjin trims the bottoms of the flowers. He’s intent on this task; he can imagine Chan’s derision and disgust as clearly as he’s been able to over the last six weeks. Chan has remained on the couch—he didn’t follow Hyunjin to the kitchen—but out of his peripherals, Hyunjin sees that Chan’s angled to watch him, and he says, frustratingly neutral in tone, “You’ve never been a flight attendant?”
Hyunjin shakes his head. “I didn’t even go to college.”
“What about your sister?”
“Hyuna,” Hyunjin says. He points with the rose he’s just clipped to a family photo, two shelves down from his trophies. “She went to college. I have to—show you something.”
Chan had just gotten up to go and look at the photo, but he doesn’t make it there, instead pausing and waiting for Hyunjin. Hyunjin abandons the flowers for now—he feels put on the spot, fried under an interrogation heat lamp, but he doesn’t want to rush through the rest of the prep. They’re from Chan, after all. They’re precious. But they can wait; what Hyunjin has to show Chan can’t. He dries his hands and leaves the kitchen, head down as he passes Chan. Looking him in the eye can also wait. Chan softly starts, “Your hair—”
“Come on, you knew I wasn’t a natural blond,” Hyunjin says, verging on a snap, prickly, defensive.
“I was just going to say it really suits you,” Chan finishes. Still soft. “I like it like this.”
Hyunjin shrivels in shame as if salted. Chan is so gentle; he’s so kind. Even when betrayed, he’s still charitable, still so patient with Hyunjin, who wouldn’t even deserve for Chan to spit in his face. Why are you here? “This way,” he mumbles, and stalks off down the hall.
Chan follows. They arrive. It had been a linen closet, but now the spare sheets live in a rolling drawer under Hyunjin’s bed. Hyunjin opens the door, pulls the cord to turn on the light, and stands back. And they look together.
“If this is what you came for,” Hyunjin says, “just take it. It’s all there.”
Chan had covered his mouth with his hand at the sight of all the cash: straining the narrow closet at the seams, fat stacks, a truly mind-boggling amount of money, when put all together like this. His eyes are goggled out. From behind his palm, there comes a muffled noise, not quite laugh, not quite scoff. The tips of his ears are red. “You weren’t even spending it?” he says, slowly lowering his hand.
“I’m not a real prostitute,” Hyunjin half-shouts. He’s blushing, too, even more embarrassed than Chan is—and what reason does Chan have to be embarrassed, anyway? “Don’t you get it yet? I made it all up for you.”
“Hyunjin—”
“I was so lonely, and Felix made you sound so good, and you were so good, but you wouldn’t let me get close to you, you didn’t think you deserved it, and I just—I was just trying to help you.”
“Hyunjin, if you—”
“And sure, I took it way too far, but I meant every single thing I said to you,” Hyunjin pleads. Shaking. He must look crazy. He is crazy. “Paris isn’t real. I was telling you how I felt, but you could only believe me if you thought it was pretend. I just wanted you to let me love you, and this was the only way you would. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t have a choice. And now I’ve totally ruined your life. I know. So—so—” Out of steam, he wilts. “Just—take the cash and forget I ever happened to you.”
“Paris,” Chan says, louder. It’s like a snap to wake Hyunjin from hypnosis, and he shudders into silence. Chan reaches for the closet door and pushes it shut with a click. He turns, looking up at Hyunjin, and they stare at each other for three heartbeats—Hyunjin wounded, Chan stalwart. “Hyunjin,” Chan corrects, with a slow blink. “Sorry. I just wanted to get your attention so you’d stop talking about yourself that way.”
“But it’s true,” Hyunjin insists.
Chan shakes his head so firmly it silences Hyunjin right away again. “If you and Felix were talking about me before we met, then you knew more or less what I was like. But do you know how I was really doing, when we met?”
“…No,” Hyunjin admits. “That’s why—I mean, Felix asked me to check on you, because even he had no idea. I was just trying to—”
“Help, I know.” Chan takes a deep breath. His eyes drop to the hallway runner. “I felt like—honestly, like my life was over. I’d spent so long chasing after Felix that I didn’t know who I’d be without him. If I could be without him. And I’ve been in a lot of dark places before, but that was—yeah, easily the darkest. It was really bad. Not exactly my own biggest fan on a normal day, but—God, it was really bad.”
Hyunjin shudders. He thinks he knew, and he knows he saw a glimpse of that darkness the night they met, but it’s very different to hear it from Chan himself. “I’m sorry.”
“And then you came to me like an angel,” Chan murmurs.
“Chan.”
“You saved me.” Chan’s hands, on Hyunjin’s face, cradling it like it’s a treasure—pushing back his ugly, mousy hair. Hyunjin looks at him, really searches him, and sees that Chan’s not neutral at all anymore: his eyes are big and wet—he’s muted, weighing every word, tender. Open. His voice, his lips, are trembling. “You saved me, and you didn’t even know how much I needed you to save me. Did you really think it was all an act for me, too? You couldn’t see I hated myself for living out the oldest, scummiest cliché, falling for you when I was paying you to tell me what I wanted to hear? Hyunjin, you’ve just saved me again. What you’ve done for me is the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you. I don’t know how I could ever thank you enough.”
This is so exactly what Hyunjin wants to hear that he can’t believe it. His hands cover Chan’s, and it’s dark in this little hallway, like they’re trapped between worlds. He feels like he’d said everything all wrong—spilled out everything he never wanted Chan to know—feeling before thinking—but Chan’s still here, letting Hyunjin keep him. “You don’t hate me?” Hyunjin whispers.
“I could never.”
“You didn’t forget about me?”
“I think about you all the time,” Chan says. His thumbs on Hyunjin’s cheekbones. The warmth of him, pulling Hyunjin into his orbit. “I’ve been driving myself crazy, trying to figure you out.”
“I’m not that complicated,” Hyunjin says. Barely breathing.
“You are, though.” Chan’s voice is quiet, and his eyes are tired, he must have been up for hours, sleepless. Thinking about Hyunjin. “Will you be patient? It’ll take me a little while to catch up with you, since you have a head start on knowing me. I want to know you, too.”
Hyunjin’s shivering again. He moves his hands to hold Chan’s shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere.” He tries for a little smile. Besides, you know me better than you think.
Chan is starting to smile, too. That crinkle at the corners Hyunjin has missed so terribly. His hands move, too, returning to that place they were made to hold—Hyunjin’s waist. Quiet, reverent, he asks, “Can I kiss you?”
“You can do anything to me.”
Chan had been leaning up already, but he pauses. “I’m asking Hyunjin, not Paris.”
“Hyunjin’s answering,” Hyunjin says, unashamed. If Chan’s serious, he needs to accept that Hyunjin is serious, too; that he really does mean it. That he’s meant it all along.
Chan kisses him. He probably has more questions; he probably wants more details. Somehow, Hyunjin can taste it in his mouth that he needs confirmation he was the only one, that Paris had no other clients, that it’s only ever been him. Hyunjin has questions, too. How has Chan been without him, these past few weeks? Did he like the way Hyunjin danced in the finale? What exactly did he ask Felix? (God—what are we going to tell Felix?) What if Chan likes shy, awkward Hyunjin less than he liked confident, glittering Paris?
Chan kisses like he’s telling Hyunjin not to worry. Hyunjin kisses back like he’s telling Chan he loves him.
Later, he’ll spell it out for him—he’ll trace it on his skin, he’ll whisper it like a secret when he thinks Chan’s asleep, he’ll show him every time he’s on a stage.
For now, he tells him just like this. It’s easy, after all, to be honest.
***
“I’m not going to break,” Hyunjin grouses, back arching, hair in his eyes as he looks angrily over his shoulder. “C’mon, baby, what are you waiting for?”
“Not waiting,” Chan says. His hand, affectionate, runs up Hyunjin’s flank, and his fingers shape around his ass for a moment before giving him a light, appreciative smack there. “Just enjoying.”
“Ah—you’d enjoy it more inside me.” Hyunjin’s face presses into the sheets. He pants, refusing to beg for it any further, and he knows he can out-stubborn Chan; ultimately, Chan has a hard time denying him anything. Sure enough, Hyunjin’s getting what he wants, the pressure of Chan’s cockhead against his rim making him go all woozy. “Fuck.”
“Worth the wait?”
Hyunjin makes incoherent sounds. Chan’s pushing in, and maybe he should have waited more, actually, because it’s a tight fit, but Hyunjin loves it. He loves that he’ll feel it all week, when he’s missing Chan. Behind him, Chan’s breath is high, thin, like he’s struggling to restrain himself. Cute. And he doesn’t restrain himself long, blessedly—his palm pushes between Hyunjin’s shoulderblades, driving him down into the mattress as he begins to fuck him, deep, not teasing anymore, how Hyunjin likes it. How they both do.
Chan flips him over before long. Hyunjin doesn’t struggle; he’s enjoying Chan’s touch so much, moaning lavishly, posing pretty. He was expecting it. Chan usually likes to kiss when he fucks. Hyunjin usually likes to kiss all the time. They tongue-kiss now, Hyunjin wrapping his legs so tightly around Chan’s waist that he tastes the way his exhale is forced out of him. The air in the small room is already thick with sex and sweat—this is round two-point-five, since the immediate sloppy way Hyunjin pounced on Chan upon coming in doesn’t count as a full round (Hyunjin would prefer, for the sake of his own reputation, that it didn’t). Hyunjin feels good. Chan looks even better. Hyunjin smiles at him, when Chan pulls back to breathe, and the way it immediately makes Chan flush deep red will never, ever lose its charm.
Hyunjin cums with Chan’s fingers in his mouth. Chan cums inside Hyunjin. It takes him forever to roll off, because Hyunjin keeps distracting him with kisses to random parts of his face—eyelid, lush Cupid’s bow, point of his chin, left eyebrow, right eyebrow. “Paris,” Chan finally laughs, nose wrinkling, head ducking to dodge. “That tickles.”
“Toughen up,” Hyunjin advises him, but then Chan pulls out and Hyunjin starts wailing and thrashing around, not so tough himself. It’s worth it for the way it makes Chan laugh and offer to carry Hyunjin to the tub. Needy, preemptively lonely, Hyunjin suggests a shower instead, so they can stay together, and they do.
It’s not a very large shower, so they stay close. Hyunjin in Chan’s arms, his head leaning sweetly down on Chan’s shoulder. He could fall asleep like this, but Chan probably won’t let him—something about wanting Hyunjin to be comfortable, or whatever, as if he didn’t live like an absolute monk until Hyunjin intervened. Eventually, when Hyunjin really can’t keep his eyes open, they step out, towel each other off, fall back into bed. Hyunjin’s fingers tangled in Chan’s wet curls, their legs wound together, and Chan’s face slack, relaxed for once, letting Hyunjin take care of him, for a change.
In the morning, Chan discovers the coffee machine is broken, and volunteers to go on a breakfast run. “The room service here is so unreliable,” he says mournfully.
“I’ll go with you,” Hyunjin shrugs, sitting up all the way. “Just give me a minute to get dressed.”
Chan looks troubled by this. “Are you sure? You really don’t have to.”
“Well, I can’t exactly go out like this.” Hyunjin, naked, flashes Chan a grin, then gets out of bed and comes over to kiss him. “Yes, I’m sure. It’ll be fun.”
Hyunjin goes on a treasure hunt along his trail of discarded clothes while Chan searches for decent coffee shops nearby. Both achieve success within a few minutes, and they set off on their little expedition together, hand in hand. Hyunjin complains of soreness, batting his eyelashes at Chan to kiss it better later. Chan looks guilty, but then a little smug: “I told you so.”
Hyunjin gasps, then pouts even harder. “No apology?”
“I know that’s a trick,” Chan laughs. “Very nice try.”
Hyunjin sighs fondly, outwitted. He looks at their reflection in the shiny elevator doors. Then he gasps again, for real this time. “Shit, I forgot my sunglasses.”
Chan moves fast—he hits the button for the next floor down, so the elevator will stop and let him out right away. “I’ll meet you in the lobby,” he says, kisses Hyunjin smudgy on the cheek, then jogs off down the hall towards the stairwell.
He’s ridiculous. Hyunjin watches him go, bursting with adoration, and shakes his head as the doors slide closed and the elevator starts to descend again. He can’t stop smiling, and he’s still a little warm in the face by the time he’s reached the lobby. It’s a nice sunny day; he’d have been grouchy without the sunglasses, and that wouldn’t be very alluring and expensive of him, so Chan’s really only doing himself a favor by going back for them. Hyunjin waits in a shadowy patch of the lobby so the Saturday morning sunlight won’t affect him too severely, but—
“You!”
A voice calls him forth. He looks over for the source, at first not even sure if that was directed at him, but—then he sees, and his jaw drops.
“I thought I told you never to come back here.”
“Holy shit,” Hyunjin says. He can’t resist; he has to go over there and talk to him. “They told me you quit!”
Minho’s frown is as pinched and cold as Hyunjin remembers. It’s almost heartwarming to see it hasn’t decreased in power in the slightest over the past five years. “Well, I came back.”
“So did I,” Hyunjin says, starting to smile.
“Clearly.” Minho is staunchly unsmiling. “Just because it’s been a while doesn’t mean what I said doesn’t still stand. I remember it very well.”
Hyunjin’s not afraid of him at all anymore. It’s funny to remember how afraid he’d been of everything, way back when. He’s glad to see Minho—he really is. They should be friends. Now that he’s working at the Hilton again, and Hyunjin and Chan are coming at least once every couple of months when life gets to be a little much and they want to take a little trip to Paris, maybe they will be. Hyunjin says, “Yeah, I remember it, too. I’ve always wondered—you didn’t happen to have a bet going or anything, did you?”
Minho narrows his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I did,” he says, slow. “I won. Jisung and I still talk about it sometimes, because he’s convinced there’s no way you were just strangers. He was really committed to the whole actually-married thing.”
Hyunjin’s smile sparkles. Behind him, he hears the clatter of the stairwell door opening, Chan’s familiar steps. “Jisung wins,” Hyunjin says, and raises his left hand to flutter-wave goodbye—his wedding band glinting in the light—before he runs over to Chan, who was waiting for him with Hyunjin’s sunglasses tucked into his shirt, and their overnight bag slung over his shoulder. To take his hand, and go back out into the real world together.