Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"God damn," he says to me,

"where did you find her? oh, I just like

to look at girls like that!"

I tell him: "it's my specialty: cement

hearts and beautiful bodies. If you can find

a heart-beat, let me know.”

— Charles Bukowski, a stethoscope case

“Non! No, no, absolutely not!” 

Hongjoong groans loud enough for it to echo through the dance studio. He throws his hands over the man’s shoulders. “Bernot, please! The dancers won’t even notice my presence!” 

“Oh, but they will. A handsome fella like you, they’re sure to catch on.” Bernot spins on his heel, tapping Hongjoong’s fingers. “You will distract them, my boy.” 

He marches off, but Hongjoong catches up to him quickly. The tiles click under his shoes. They are an attempt to mimic the older mosaics, though do a pretty lousy job at it. The black and white pattern reminds Hongjoong more of a chessboard than anything. 

“But if my paintings go up for exposition,” Hongjoong argues, “won’t that draw attention to your ensemble? You ballet will gain popularity.” 

Bernot pauses in his steps. “My boy, now you speak my language.” 

Hongjoong grins. “I knew you’d come around!” 

“Why don’t I lead you to the studios? There is a rehearsal going on right now.” Bernot is all grins. It’s laughable how quickly he can change face. “Will you be transforming the place into your own atelier?”

“We shall see about that. I like to catch events in the moment,” Hongjoong says. “If possible, I’d like to get some sketches done.” 

“Of course, of course!” Bernot waves over his shoulder and starts walking up the stairs. 

Hongjoong can already hear the soft tune of piano keys breaking through the air. It’s upbeat and rhythmic, though the melody sings over it. It sounds romantic and yearning. Hongjoong can already imagine the scene plastered over it. A typical love story that explodes too soon, endless twirling around each other, into each other. He can imagine the flows of tule, feathered fingertips reaching and brushing, tiptoeing over stars. 

He had never been to the ballet, but he had heard stories from San. A beautiful show, he had called it, but filled to the brim with pretentious pricks. He had never gone again. He would rather get inspired elsewhere. Somewhere where the air wasn’t suffocating. 

The stairs are wooden and they creak underneath Hongjoong’s weight. The are pressed against a wall and too small for two bodies to pass each other. Hongjoong has never been to the studio, but with the ballet being one of the spots the rich like to mingle, he had thought they would have funded it to turn it into something a bit more comfortable. 

“The final plank is loose. Watch your step,” Bernot warns him. He coughs out a heave. 

“You should get that fixed,” Hongjoong says. “The dancers might injure themselves.” 

“They will be fine.” 

The music is deafening by now. Bernot gives a single knock to announce his arrival. The door swings open with a force that could knock Hongjoong out for a week or three. He tries peeking over the man’s shoulder, but it is to no use. He is broad in the doorway, wide as he is tall. His stumpy fingers clutch onto the post. 

The piano comes to an abrupt halt. The remnants of the final note hang in the air. A group of heads turn to their direction from what Hongjoong can catch through Bernot’s limbs. 

“Don’t mind us,” he says. “We are only here to observe. Keep going.” 

The dancers’ voices all rumble into an echo of agreement. There is some shuffling of positions before the piano music catches up once more. The floors shake with the impact, despite how quiet their jumps are. Hongjoong finally slips through the fortress of Bernot’s stature. He marvels at the light in the studio, the way it curls through the air and bounces off the mirrors. 

As his eyes run down the place, he catches sight of what exactly it has been made for. The room is lit golden as a man cuts through it. He is taller than Hongjoong, skinnier too. His span was sure to wrap around Hongjoong twice. In their stretch his legs look longer than Hongjoong’s entire height. His feet patter along to the beat of the music, his face drawn into a forlorn expression.  

Hongjoong’s chest stutters. His eyes go wild, running over the lines of the man’s sleek muscles. The light bounces off them and the shadows paint their definition, their strain as he twists as if he is weightless. From the start of his shoulder over the stretch of his arm and to the tip of his finger he tremors with precision. 

“That dancer…” Hongjoong whispers. “He moves like the wings of an angel.” 

Bernot crosses his arms. The corner of his lip pulls upward. “He is quite the stunner, is he not?” 

“What is his name?” 

“That would be our Seonghwa. One of our finest at le Symbolique.” 

Hongjoong watches him fly over the floor, the wood in his shoes tapping it when he lands. He glistens in the sunlight. His reflection in the mirror is as a negative film. 

Bernot raises a brow. “You wish to speak to him?” 

“If I may.” 

“It’s quite alright. He is used to such advances.” Bernot chuckles. It’s rusty like a starting engine. He cups his mouth. “Seonghwa! Mon bijou! This young man wishes for your attention.” 

Seonghwa straightens up, tilting his head to the side. He still finishes his spin to near perfection, landing softly before he makes his way over to the pair. He has his arms twisted in an offhanded stretch. The other dancers watch the scene fold out with owlish gazes, hushed whispers hitting the ceiling. 

Up close Seonghwa is the sun. Hongjoong has to remind himself what it is to breathe. 

“What do I owe you this pleasure?” Seonghwa asks. His voice is airy, interrupted by a staccato of gasps. 

“You fascinated me,” Hongjoong says. 

“Did I now.” 

Hongjoong scratches the back of his neck with a chuckle. Seonghwa’s stare is pointed. Not once does it trail off, fixated on Hongjoong with a burning intensity. 

Bernot clears his throat. He throws his arm around Hongjoong. “Hongjoong here is a painter! 

“A painter,” Seonghwa muses. “What makes this one special?” 

“Mon bijou, don’t be like that.” Bernot smiles, though his brows furrow. His grip on Hongjoong tightens. He turns to face him with a deep-gutted laugh. “Now, Hongjoong! I will let you get stationed. They have been granted free rehearsal, so nothing is too structural today. I will leave you to it.” 

Hongjoong nods his head. He watches as Bernot exits the room. Suddenly the place looks a lot larger. The mirrors lining two of the walls feel almost invasive. Hongjoong is sure he is being watched from every angle. 

“You can sit on one of the benches,” Seonghwa says. 

The sudden closeness of his voice shocks Hongjoong out of his thoughts. He nearly jolts into the air. Before he can reply, though, Seonghwa has his back turned. Hongjoong can't stop his eyes from glueing themselves to the expanse of his back, the way the fabric lays tight over the muscles in it. His shoulder blades poke out like the wings of angels threatening to tear through his thin, porcelain skin. He prances to one of the barres, animatedly picking up conversation with another one of the dancers. Every now and then he peeks over his shoulders to where Hongjoong has gone to sit. 

There is another dancer next to him. He is quite a bit shorter, and the youth is still clinging to his face like a layer of star shine. His smile is wider than his face can accommodate, his whispers not quite hushed. Hongjoong can tell they’re talking about him, especially with the way the other dancer points in his direction continuously. He doesn’t shy away when their eyes meet. Rather, he continues talking to Seonghwa, muttering hopefully some kind-worded commentary about Hongjoong’s offense of being here. 

Hongjoong pulls a small sketchbook from his bag and charcoal from a wooden case. He takes in the perspective of the place, the way the lines run into each other. He hurries through the sketch. He doesn’t bother with getting the anatomy down to tiptop perfection. He has long moved past that. He had let go of rules and conventions, running through the definitions and clarifications of what made a thing something to be admired with blindfolds. Art was his freedom. He did not want to feel trapped in it any longer.

He glances over the edge of his sketchbook back to Seonghwa. Bernot had called him a jewel. The more he sees Seonghwa move, the more Hongjoong starts to understand the sentiment. Hongjoong knew what ballet encompassed. The grace of movements, limbs moving like the ocean’s waves, they all hid the strain beneath it, the aches of joints and bodies disfigured to accompany the burdens it carried. Bodies aren’t made to bend that way, and yet they do. Hongjoong’s chest lurches at the thought. 

He manages to fill three pages by the time the dancers start packing up. People flurry around him, not quite pushing him aside though not asking him to move either. The push around him to collect their belongings, rushing to finally find their rest before they have to do it all over again the next day. 

Seonghwa is one of the last to hobble off to the sides. He takes his sweet time, the small dancer hopping beside him. Their voices have hushed by now, limbs heavy with exhaustion. Seonghwa still manages a tired smile in his direction. It is as the shadow of the sun. 

“Excuse me,” Hongjoong says. His tone wavers as he speaks. He clears his throat, intertwining his fingers behind his back. 

Seonghwa looks up from his bag. The smaller dancer on his side bounces in between them. He is wrapped up in his coat, ready to head back out. His eyes pinch together. “What is it you need him for.” 

“I— Well, you see—“ Hongjoong fumbles for his sketchbook as if that will clarify anything. “I just wanted to ask him something.” 

“Define something.” 

Seonghwa sighs, laying a hand on the dancer’s shoulder. “Wooyoung-ah, I’ll be okay.” 

The dancer, Wooyoung, eyes Hongjoong with suspicion and a pointed look. Hongjoong flounders underneath his gaze. Eventually Wooyoung hums, though he sounds less than satisfied. He gives Seonghwa a final sideways hug before he bounces through the entrance doors. 

Seonghwa crosses his arms. “Then, what is it you wanted to ask me?” 

“You’re magnificent,” Hongjoong breathes out.

“That is not a question, but thank you.” 

“The pleasure is mine, but what I wanted to ask you is…” Hongjoong scratches the back of his neck.  “Well, would you mind if I do some studies on you?” 

“Studies?” Seonghwa asks.

“I would like to paint you.” 

“Oh. I see.” 

Seonghwa’s tone is flat. He presses his lips into a thin line, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes peer far over Hongjoong’s shoulder. 

“As I said,” Hongjoong is quick to quip, squirming a bit, “you are magnificent. I meant it when I said you fascinated me. The control you have over your muscles is unimaginable.” 

“All the dancers have such skill,” Seonghwa says. He raises one brow, stare narrowing even more. Hongjoong shrinks underneath his expression. 

“And yet you caught my eye," Hongjoong mumbles.

“What do you need of me?” 

“Well, I’d need to do studies of your face, first of all,” Hongjoong tells him. “Get familiar with the likes of you. If you feel comfortable, we can go to my studio at le Académie, or at my home. Either of those places have a lovely fall of light especially in the early hours of the morning.” 

He slowly trails off as he notices Seonghwa’s responses being minimal. He scratches behind his ear. “Apologies. I must have been rambling.” 

“No, please continue,” Seonghwa says. “It’s best to settle the option now, though I fear I do have an appointment to meet in a bit.” 

Hongjoong’s eyes widen. ”Oh! Let me hurry, then. I’d like to accompany you to practice and capture you in the moment. I love it when my subjects are alive.” 

Seonghwa hums. “I suppose we can do that.” 

Hongjoong breaks out into a grin. “Great! Amazing! I will see you— Soon!” 

Seonghwa gives him nothing more than a huff. Hongjoong will assume it is one of amusement. He watches Seonghwa’s blouse flutter in the wind at the first step he takes down the stairs. Hongjoong can only trail after his figure, melting into the bustling crowds like a raindrop falling into the ocean. 

In the fast-moving world there is a beauty in candids. Within the high tempo of life there is a beauty to taking the time to appreciate the flow of the moment, to capture a fragment of it. There is a beauty in doubling over in laughter, in the excitement of the everyday. Not everything is exciting, but there is nothing stopping him from being excited about it regardless, from jittering with the desire to go out and experience what it is to be human. 

What makes a human, Hongjoong doesn’t have the answer to. He isn’t searching for it either. What he wishes for is to be out and present in the moment. To live and to love, feel the implicit romance of being able to feel. Hongjoong has known numbness, but he has also burned with passion, so bright it made him feverish, cheeks read and his head filled with cotton. And yet he felt. He felt so intensely he never wants to let any of that passion ever go. 

Hongjoong is the happiest when he starts new projects. It makes him forget all the project he had started and then abandoned, half-finished messes of color stashed away in his corner of the room. He immediately returns to le Académie the moment he is out of the dance school. His mind works faster than he can comprehend, planning out all he can do, all the possibilities. This time around, he is sure to fill at least two walls. 

By the time his brain comes to a rest the sun is shimmering through the windows, falling right underneath the blinds and into Hongjoong’s eyes. He squints at the sudden intrusion, noticing only now how heavy his head feels. 

“Good day, Hongjoong! Haven’t slept, I presume,” San chirps as he steps into the room. 

He is always early to rise when Hongjoong is late to rest. They clash in many ways, and yet gravitate towards each other all the same. 

Hongjoong stifles a yawn. He stretches his arms above his head, groaning when a few joints pop back into place. “San.” 

San comes to stand in his workplace, raising a brow at the unimpressive amount of progress. “A blank canvas? What is it that has stricken our grand master?” 

“Enough with the jests, San.” 

“Alright, alright. Now, will you tell me?” 

Hongjoong sighs. “I have found the theme for our exhibit. I have realized what I want to paint.” 

“So what seems to be the issue?” San asks. 

“I have found the absolute perfect subject. But I fear he does not like me very much.” 

“Oh?” 

“He has the tongue of a viper, I tell you.” Hongjoong chuckles “I wondered if I could capture him maybe on my own, but I don’t think I could do that without making a caricature out of him.” 

“You have the soul of a poet,” San says. His eyes crinkle up in a smile. 

He flies over to his own designated work place. He sets out his materials, hopping back and forth every time he remembers something he has forgotten.

Hongjoong watches him with light amusement. “How is your project getting along, then? Since you’ve been taking so much interest in mine?” 

“The cafes in the night have to be one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen,” San gushes. He throws his hands into the air as if to show Hongjoong what words can’t capture. “They are just so… human.” 

Hongjoong raises a brow. “You’re painting buildings?” 

“No, Hongjoong,” San strikes him down. “I’m painting the life within them!” 

“And you say I have the soul of a poet.” 

“Yeosang is doing his usual fields.” 

Hongjoong rolls his eyes, lips spreading into a grin. “Well, stability caries you through life just as well—if not better. We could learn from him.” 

“Hello?” 

Hongjoong jumps out of his spot. He coughs and straightens out his shirt, eyes flying through the room. His eyes fall upon a tall frame standing in the doorway. Seonghwa looks almost stiff with the way his back is pulled straight, his arms sticklike by his side. It is almost as if there are strings keeping him up, a marionette waiting to be moved. 

Hongjoong clears his throat once again, grabbing a cloth that lay abandoned over the edge of the table. He scrapes it over his fingers until the paint disappears. He can rid himself of the most, but there are small parts still sticking to the creases in his fingers, seeped into his fingerprints. He fumbles around in search for a chair. He had expected Seonghwa, of course, but when painting he had lost track of time. He taps himself on the forehead slightly, cursing to himself. 

"Hongjoong?" Seonghwa calls again.  

“Seonghwa! Welcome, welcome, come in,” Hongjoong says. “Make yourself comfortable, please.” 

Seonghwa nods a single time. He walks past Hongjoong like one would glide over ice. His hair is slightly curled at the ends, carefully flicked out of his eyes. Hongjoong hadn’t thought Seonghwa could get any more beautiful than he already was, but he is proven horribly wrong. 

The linen is thin on Seonghwa’s frame, trousers dipping into the curve of his waist. It is much like the clothing he had haphazardly thrown on when he rushed out of rehearsals. His skin glows in the afternoon sun, the scars of past blemishes washed out in the bright light, running over his high cheekbones. His deep eyes are freckled with specks of sun. He looks divine and effortless, as if nothing is binding him to this existence. 

He stalks around the room with his hands in his pockets, inspecting what each corner has to hide. It's now that Hongjoong picks up the state of it. His scratches his neck. God, he should’ve at least tidied up a bit. At least sorted the papers.  

“Your workplace is quite big,” Seonghwa says. 

His voice is soft, though there is a timber to it that makes the hairs on his arms rise. Hongjoong had noticed it the previous day, too. Despite most of his comments being snide, Seonghwa’s voice had a roundness to it, gentle and velveteen. Now it fully comes forward. He is less tense now that there is no one watching him. There is no crowd fluttering in wild motions, no voices overpowering him. 

His posture is slouched, now much more relaxed than when he had first called Hongjoong's attention. He runs his fingers over Hongjoong’s work table. He scrunches up his nose at the layer of dust coating it. 

“Ah, well, I share it. There are two others, right over there you can see.” Hongjoong points at the setups that are yet to be cleaned up. He can see the vague beginnings of San’s nightlife scene and the whole end of Yeosang’s flowerpot. “They are part of the society, have been since I started out here. Apprentices of different masters, but we ended up in the same spot by fate.” 

“How interesting.” Seonghwa clasps his hands behind his back. “You seem to be fond of them.” 

“Though I hate to admit it, I’m afraid I am.” Hongjoong chuckles. 

Seonghwa spins around on his heel, gaze stuck to the ceiling. There isn’t much to see there aside from the flickering lamps barley hanging on. “So, I heard this is for an exhibition.” 

“Ah, yes! Of the school!” Hongjoong exclaims. “I wanted to play with dynamics this time around. I’m fairly confident in my sceneries, so I thought something new would be exciting. I haven’t depicted as many people as I would have liked to. I can be awfully shy.” 

“I can’t tell.” 

“Thank you.” 

Seonghwa nods. “How do you want me?” 

“Oh, if you could just… Yeah if you could just sit right here.” Hongjoong pulls a chair from the corner and drags it over to Seonghwa. He waves at him to sit down. “Right, very good. And then if you could just look at… me…” 

Hongjoong’s breath catches in his throat. “That’s… that’s good. Stay like that, please.” 

“Alright.” Seonghwa plucks at the folds in his pants, smoothening them out. 

This has to be the blessing of his lifetime, Hongjoong thinks. His eyes travel the outlines of Seonghwa’s face, the edges and softened curve. The slope of his nose down to thick, pink lips. His cupid’s bow runs long. Hongjoong wonders if they are soft, if everything to him is soft to touch. Yet, his brows are set sharp, though they are not pinched together in a frown. 

His skin is as if it's made of porcelain, paled with probably the lack of sunlight. His veins run blue over it, as if he is translucent. There are stray blemishes drawn into his cheeks, probably traces of his earlier youth. Hongjoong keeps his hands stiff by his side, afraid that if he does move them he would set it to break with his rough fingers, or bruise at least. Leave scratches he never intended to.

When Hongjoong comes to his eyes, Seonghwa is already looking at him. It’s as if he never looked away. There is a deepness to his eyes that draws him in, deep as the blackest depths of the ocean, the unknown. Seonghwa is looking at him. He draws their gazes together, keeps them tied on a string. 

The world stops spinning and Hongjoong forgets what it is to breathe, what it means to need air in his lungs when Seonghwa had so easily knocked it out of them. 

“You’re not drawing?” Seonghwa asks. 

It doesn’t sound as anything meant to be snide, a genuine question, perhaps. Yet Hongjoong scrambles. His charcoal stick nearly tumbles from his grip, but he manages to catch it, leaving only the stain of his fingerprints on the paper. He has no time to lament it in his panic. All that overtakes him is shame, deep-rooted and guttural. He drops his head. 

“Sorry,” Hongjoong murmurs. “I got lost in thought.” 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Seonghwa says.

His lips curl into a smile of silver. His laugh comes out as a whisper, a summer breeze carried over from the countryside, taking along the dry yellows of the fields and a flurry of wildflower petals. 

“It’s fine! I’m a bit jumpy. It must be the sleep deprivation.” Hongjoong clears his throat. “What do you do outside of dancing?” 

“What more is there for me to do?” Seonghwa asks. Though Hongjoong isn't looking at him, he can feel the burn of his gaze, intense as it is musing. “My entire life is dance, really. I get up and leave to dance, I dance the whole day and after hours I engage with people from the theater and such.” 

Hongjoong gathers up all his courage and tears his gaze away from his paper, away from his invisible hiding spot. Seonghwa's gaze is as chocolate glazing the pastries Hongjoong sometimes gets from the bakery, when he allows himself to indulge, savor the flavor, the sweetness. Thick, smooth and molten in the sun, sticking to his fingers when he holds them too long, coating everything in their decadence as he searches for a way to clean himself, only to mourn over the growth of the mess. 

“But, if you didn’t have that," Hongjoong says, "what would you like to do?” 

“Who are you without art, Hongjoong?” 

The question is spoken into the air and carried with the wind. Seonghwa's tone had been light, though indicated the storm that was yet to come.

No one. Hongjoong doesn’t say it, because though he loves art, he knows it’s not true. There is more to him than his paintings, but without art he would feel a sense of loss. A grievance, perhaps. He wouldn’t be fully things, but there would have been other things keeping him afloat. 

But Seonghwa looks so grave with his brows pinched even in the slightest. 

“Touché,” is all Hongjoong replies. 

Seonghwa’s lips spread into a victorious smile. Hongjoong will let him have it, the pride of being right. After all, he isn’t quite sure what the answer would be anyway. 

Hongjoong is a dreamer, and when he dreams, he dreams grand. He dreams of connecting the world and sharing beauty of all forms. He dreams of flying. His feet lifting off the ground and being lifted up to the sky. He dreams of the wind carrying him into a world that is as bright as his paintings are, where everything is saturated and warm. 

His fingers touch the grass. 

A bird circles over his head. It’s a silhouette of black with its wings spread wide. The sunlight behind it breaks like stained glass, each of its colors scattering over the horizon. Oranges are fractured from yellows, from yellows, from the blue-green that is somehow hidden within it too. Hongjoong squints. His eyes burn. 

“Come down,” Hongjoong calls. 

The bird does not. Instead it flies higher into the sky. It rains feathers. Hongjoong feels them graze his cheeks. He hisses. A sting spreads over his skin, blinding white. He runs his fingers over the spot. They come off stained red.

The studio is empty compared to the last time. There aren’t any murmurs coming from within. Instead the voices slip through the walls, dulling a plethora of conversations into one gray mush. The only thing that overpowers them is the tapping of feet against the floor and the sharp claps of the instructor, hellbent on getting every single beat accentuated. Even the piano falls silent beyond them. 

Seonghwa’s hair is damp. It sticks to his neck and stray strands have glued themselves to his forehead. His chest heaves with exertion. He has his hands supporting his back, hunched over into himself as the teacher directs him with grand motions and even grander vocabulary. 

Seonghwa nods with a hardened stare. He shuffles over to the other end of the room. It’s the heaviest Hongjoong has ever seen his feet. Usually Seonghwa floats. He flutters. He steps into an arabesque, the corners of his eyes glistening. 

He stays frozen in spot, trembling into the tips of his fingers. The agony drawn in his eyes is something Hongjoong knows will haunt him into the night. 

“Non, non, non!” The teacher claps his hands together. The sound cuts through the air, bounces off the walls like nails over a chalkboard. “Higher up! Lift your leg higher! It must look sharp and defined.” 

“This is as far as it goes,” Seonghwa urges. Hongjoong can see he is trying his hardest to keep his tone hushed and gentle. The draw of his brows are far from kind, however. 

The teacher pinches the bridge of his nose. He waves over at one of the walls. “To the side. You can do better than that. Otherwise, you have no business being here.” 

Seonghwa doesn’t lower his head this time. He pulls his shoulders back, chin pointed slightly upwards. He is taller than the man. It’s almost as if he is glancing over him this way. He follows the direction he’s been pointed in. The teacher is hot on his heel. Their bodies collide into each other every odd step. 

He guides Seonghwa into his preferred position. “Now, up on your toes. Breathe in deeply, alright? And then…” 

Seonghwa gives a curt nod. His face is drawn into a blank, not a single muscle tensed in it. The motions are slow and controlled. His fingers rest atop the bar without strain. Hongjoong had seen how well he can balance with nothing but himself as support. He isn’t quite sure what more perfection this teacher is searching for, when Seonghwa had caught Hongjoong’s breath by doing just as he has. 

The teacher reaches his hand under Seonghwa’s leg, snapping it up. Seonghwa lets out a grunt through his teeth. It sounds garbled, like a strangled yelp.

Despite this, Seonghwa doesn’t flinch in the slightest, though his knuckles whiten around the wood. He keeps his gaze right ahead of him, eyes trailing far off into the distance. Paris is stretched over the horizon, filled with thousands of people who may never see the happenings within these four walls. 

The hand slides down further up his thigh, trailing deeper to its inner side. Though the man is facing away from him, Hongjoong can see his expression twist in the mirror. Seonghwa sucks in a shuddering breath, teeth sunken into his bottom lip. 

The tension in the room is heavy as the sky. Hongjoong wonders if this is the weight Atlas carried on his shoulders. He wonders how Atlas bore it, how he hadn’t just let it crush him rather than grit through the labors.

Hongjoong doesn’t give a damn if the universe collapses. At least it would crush the evils within it too. 

“He is in pain,” Hongjoong speaks up. “Forcing a stretch like this will not be of any use. I think it would be detrimental more than anything.” 

The teacher steps back. His hands slips away from Seonghwa, giving him no guidance back to the ground. Seonghwa wobbles and collapses, barely managing to keep his balance. He clutches onto the barre, eyes slightly widened. They are ghostly, running over the streets. Far, far away. 

“How do you know?” The teacher regains his composure, though the edge in his voice is made to cut. “It is far from your expertise.” 

“I can see when something does more damage than it does good. It would be a shame, is all I’m saying. To ruin something that is already more than enough.” Hongjoong turns back down to his work. “Excuse my interruption. Please, continue on.” 

The silence stretches on for a few seconds longer. A chill runs down Hongjoong’s back, though it’s nothing as cutting as he would have expected. He lifts his gaze from his paper. It crosses right with Seonghwa’s. He stands by the windows still, and though his face doesn’t betray anything on his mind, his stance is stiff. 

He stands frozen in spot, clutching onto the sides. And he looks at Hongjoong, piercing right through his soul. He tilts his head and finally a frown settles between his brows. His eyes run down Hongjoong’s body, zoning in on his fingers, then back up to his face. 

Seonghwa sighs. He runs his fingers through his hair, dragging himself forward. Back to the center. Every mirror in the room shows a reflection of him, his crafted posture, as if kneaded upright like a sculptor would with a clay figurine. He raises his arms and stretches his legs. The music plays. Hongjoong falls breathless as he watches him move. 

The teacher exits the studio without more than a glower in Hongjoong’s direction. Hongjoong brushes it off with ease. It is far from the nastiest look he has received, and such pompous assholes never bothered him much. If anything, he pities them for having to live with themselves every waking hour and beyond. 

Seonghwa shuffles to Hongjoong’s side, crouching down. He plows through his belongings, which aren’t much, now Hongjoong notices. It’s a fresh change of clothes and the shoes he wears out, all lumped together in one big pile, along with a sack to carry out his attire now. 

It seems as if Hongjoong isn’t there at all. Seonghwa unwraps himself from his garments. He pulls down his tights and undoes the laces. He scuffles and wriggles free, leaving himself bare. 

Hongjoong tears his eyes away, looking out the windows instead. He had seen countless of bodies, more bare than this. He had seen them against sheets or posed for him to observe, to trace with his eyes and recreate onto paper. He had never cared much about it. When confronted with nudity Hongjoong oftentimes knew what to do. It was clear what was expected from him. After all, when all comes down to it, stripped naked humans are all the same. 

Still, something restricts him from gazing at Seonghwa in that same manner. There isn’t much modesty to Seonghwa regarding what he does. Hongjoong is sure he by now knows how each muscle in Seonghwa’s body flexes, how the light falls onto the slopes of his waist and thighs and arms, yet something in him tells him to keep his distance. Admire only from afar, but never too close. Admire him only as an artist. Hongjoong’s stomach churns. 

He can hear Seonghwa’s heavy breathing even out with one final gulp of air. He can imagine the expanse of his chest, the way it sinks with the exhale. A weight shakes the bench. Hongjoong finally looks to the side. 

Seonghwa is bent over, fumbling with the clasps of his shoes. His lips are pulled thin. He mutters a curse under his breath. 

“Do you usually have individual classes?” Hongjoong asks. 

Seonghwa pats at his cheeks, catching the sweat. “I’m lucky to say I do. After all, it has greatly helped me rise in the ranks.” 

“You are talented,” Hongjoong says. 

“Talent is not enough in this world, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa says. “Opportunities, that’s what brings us forward. I’m sure you are aware.” 

“It’s astounding how determined you are to be cynical about everything in life.” 

“I’ve been around long enough to know nothing comes for free.” Seonghwa huffs, stomping his foot around. He tries the clasps again. “Even your company right now comes with the price of being your muse. There is no such thing as priceless. One way or another, we pay.” 

Hongjoong isn’t sure how to respond. He knows Seonghwa is right. Despite how bitter his words sting, they are true. Hongjoong doesn’t like the frown on his features. 

“You did amazing,” he tells Seonghwa instead. That, too, is the truth. 

“Thank you.”

“May I walk you home?” 

Seonghwa stares at him with owlish eyes. He blinks. “Do as you wish.” 

Hongjoong’s soul flutters. 

The path to Seonghwa’s apartment crosses over many streets that overlap with the same name. Hongjoong had always wondered why Paris did that—have same-named places spread over locations. During his first few weeks in the city it had disoriented him and sent him off course far beyond his comprehension. 

Eventually they make it. The street is out of the range Hongjoong can afford. There are higher end buildings down the road, and it’s close enough to the center to make Hongjoong furl with jealousy. Seonghwa guides him further down the street. A few people run over the streets and there is chattering heard from everywhere. Hongjoong can hear the yells from shops, as well as the boisterous laughter. Seonghwa pays it less mind.

“Do you wish to come in?” he asks. “You’ve worked as hard as I have. I can help you to a drink.” 

“If it’s not a bother,” Hongjoong says.

“I offered.” Seonghwa reaches into his pocket. “Now, please, follow me. I live on the second floor.” 

Hongjoong trails after him like a duckling. Like he knows no better and would follow blindly after anything Seonghwa does, put his faith into him and trust he will lead him, guide him. The stairways are cramped, worse than at the studio. Hongjoong feels like he has to squeeze into himself to fit. The floorboards creak when they finally reach up. 

Seonghwa jingles his keys into the lock, pushing the door open with his entire body. He tumbles into the apartment with his entire body. He holds it open by the wood, motioning with his hand for Hongjoong to enter. 

Seonghwa’s apartment, though on the larger side, isn’t filled with much impressive. Compared to Hongjoong’s clutter, the place is rather bare. There are the closets and tables, most likely mahogany, if Hongjoong judges by their reddish undertones. There is a single bed stuffed into one of the corners, the sheets a primeval white. 

There is a slight burned tinge in the air. Hongjoong pulls his nose up at the smell, trying to pinpoint where it’s coming from, only to realize it’s surrounding him. It reeks from the walls, the curtains, the ceiling. He frowns. 

Seonghwa hangs his coat on the rack, floating his way behind Hongjoong. His fingers tug at the fabric. Hongjoong positions his arms so that Seonghwa can slip it off. 

“You can take a seat in one of the chairs,” Seonghwa tells him. “And if you’d like a drink I have wine in both colors and gin.” 

“Whatever you like,” Hongjoong says. 

Seonghwa nods. “Wine it is.” 

He slips around the corner. Hongjoong can hear the clinking of glasses and the creaking of cabinets. He drags himself over to the sofa and drops himself down in it. The cushions drown him and he has to wiggle around a bit to lift himself out of the soft trap. He drums his fingers on his thighs, waiting for Seonghwa to return. 

Hongjoong’s place isn’t as big. He doesn’t have nearly enough space to storage any of Seonghwa’s furniture, that’s for sure. Whereas his place is coated with forgotten artworks and figurines he had been working on, Seonghwa’s place is pristine. There is a single painting on the wall of a field, closer to reality than Hongjoong would ever paint it. On the table there is a vase with wilting roses. They droop over the edge, their petals crisp and bronzing. Hongjoong bumps his foot against the legs, watching the last of them flurry. 

“Here you go.” Seonghwa’s voice closes in with each word. He sets the glass down in front of Hongjoong. He fumbles around his pockets. “Excuse me while I go light up one.” 

Hongjoong nods. “Of course, of course.” 

He reaches for the glass as Seonghwa settles down by the windowsill. He lifts himself up the ledge, pulling an ashtray into view. It had been hidden by the curtains. He places a cigarette between his lips and drags a match. The flame erupts into a cloud of smoke. It hides Seonghwa’s face like an apparition in the night, the wailing ladies some claim to see in the fields under the full moon. 

When the smoke clears, blue as the mist, Seonghwa is looking at Hongjoong. It’s like a dragon emerging from its cave, ready to bear down on their prey. His shoulders slump, his chest concave. 

Seonghwa leans his head against the window frame. He taps the ash off into the ashtray, gathering the lost flecks into it with his fingertips. “What is your plan for this project?” 

“Do you wish to hear the truth?” Hongjoong asks. He brings the wine to his lips, suppressing a gag. It’s bitter and dry, leaving his throat scalding. 

“I wouldn’t ask the question if I didn’t.” 

Hongjoong chuckles. “You’re very forward, you know that?” 

“It’s hard to get what you want, are you not. Some don’t dare to voice out what they need or think, but I think I have lived in discomfort for long enough.” Seonghwa’s jaw flexes as he inhales, lets the smoke glide down his lungs. He shakes his head, sighing. “I don’t want people to misunderstand me, so I don’t give them space to.” 

“But then, won’t they misunderstand you for being unkind?” 

“When have I ever said I’m not?” Seonghwa leans forward to toss the cigarette away. He looks at Hongjoong through his lashes. “You know, if you want to see an impressive piece of work, you should come to one of the shows. There surely will be a lot more colors there. More than in practice, at least.” 

Hongjoong’s mouth falls open. He splutters a bit, trying to form his words. Seonghwa’s eyes twinkle, lips curled up ever so slightly. He doesn’t speak, waiting for Hongjoong to compose himself. 

Hongjoong clears his throat. His ears are burning. “Is that an invitation?” 

Seonghwa nods. “Of course it is.” 

“I don’t usually go to the theater. I rarely have business there.” 

“And now you do. So come.” 

“I…” Hongjoong presses his lips tougher. He can’t keep Seonghwa waiting. He is already far too soft for him. “See you there.” 

Hongjoong remembers the first time he had his art displayed. He had been no older than nineteen and thought he knew better than anyone ever before him. It had been a small canvas the size of his forearm both in length and width. He’d painted the pond of the park, littered in colors before unimagined. Hongjoong always had a knack for creating, and an even wider creativity. His teacher had told him if there was anything he had a knack for, it was seeing things that weren’t there. 

Hongjoong let the criticism fly over his head. His teacher had a hand on his shoulder and a glimmer in his eyes Hongjoong hadn’t ever seen before. It had been a small piece, but it was the weight of the world in Hongjoong’s heart. He had his chest puffed out and his chin held high. He doesn’t remember anyone caring about his work, if anyone even bothered to see the name beneath is, but that didn’t mattered. What mattered was he was on display. His work, his pride. 

Looking at the work now, it wasn’t all that impressive, but as with most firsts, Hongjoong cherished it all the more. It is mostly, though, that the more he creates, the more indifferent he feels about it. 

He by then knows what he can do, has seen most things and shared as well. He wouldn’t call himself a grand master just yet, but he is aware of his genius, and so are the people who come to him. They compliment him on his skill and it warms his heart. 

He knows there are still people out there to disagree, but most are too cowardly to say it to his face. Sometimes he reads it in the papers. Some column written by someone who thinks they know better. They make valid points, though most of the time it’s too nitpicky for Hongjoong to even consider taking seriously. 

The moment Hongjoong steps inside the dance school there are whisperings. Dancers flutter past him, gasping into their hands. Their eyes fleet over to one of the corridors constantly. Hongjoong brushes it off. 

He greets Bernot in good nature when he runs into him. 

“Hongjoong, my boy!” Bernot returns with far more enthusiasm. He pats him on the back. “How far along are you? Anything to show yet?” 

“Not that far, unfortunately, but I’m making good progress,” Hongjoong says.

“Ah, well, show me, alright? I’m burning with curiosity.” 

Hongjoong nods. He follows the gazes of the dancers. “Say, what is going on? I’ve noticed some unrest.” 

Bernot follows Hongjoong’s line of sight. “Ah! Of course!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up. “Since it’s close to the show, some of the patrons have come in to… check the state of things. Speaking of, I must return there immediately.” 

“Oh,” Hongjoong accepts easily, “then, I will see you around. I’ll head upstairs.” 

Bernot waves him off with an absent expression. He hobbles down to the hall. Hongjoong trails after him with his eyes. The last he hears is Bernot’s boisterous laugh before a door slams shut. 

Seonghwa hasn’t arrived yet when Hongjoong stations himself on his bench. It hasn’t gotten anymore comfortable. The wood is hard and bumpy in odd places. It digs into Hongjoong flesh in a way that makes sure he will never find a still position. He once again reminds himself to bring a pillow next time. He is sure he’ll forget it. 

“You are the artist.” 

Hongjoong startles out of his drawing. He looks up to find the same doe eyed dancer from the first day. There is a beauty spot beneath his eye. He’s staring straight through Hongjoong in a way that makes him squirm. 

“Uh, hello.” Hongjoong holds out his hand. “Hongjoong.” 

The dancer accepts. “I know. I’m Wooyoung.” 

“Nice to meet you.” 

“Why are you here?” Wooyoung immediately asks. “Is there anything you need?” 

“Only for you all to proceed with your usual schedules.”

Wooyoung cocks up a brow. He rolls his neck and twists his shoulders. The joints crack with agonizing volume. Hongjoong flinches as if they’re his own, but Wooyoung seems less than bothered. He taps his feet on the floor, giving his toes a roll down. 

“It’s the final rehearsal before the show tomorrow,” he says. “Things will go grandiosely wrong.” 

“You sound certain.” 

“Has happened each time without a fail. At least, since I’ve come here.” 

“Must not have been too long.” 

“Hm, I’ve been around. It’s only recently that I’ve been deemed good enough to perform, though. They might even offer me a contract this time around. Like Seonghwa.” Wooyoung smiles, though it foils at the edges, twisted in a way that makes Hongjoong’s heart shiver. Wooyoung throws himself over the barre. “So, you didn’t tell me what you’re doing here.” 

“I’ve chosen you to be my subject for the exhibit,” Hongjoong answers. 

He isn’t quite sure where this conversation is going, if Wooyoung is genuinely curious. It reminds him of speaking to a child, truly, being bombarded with questions left and right. Those big, owlish eyes staring right through him. 

Wooyoung purses his lips. “Hm. But why wouldn’t people just come to the theaters then, rather than watch it being depicted on canvas.” 

“I wouldn’t understand either,” Hongjoong says. “I only create the art. It is up to the people what they do with it and think of it afterwards.” 

“Hm.” 

“What’s with that tone?” 

“I just think you’re full of shit,” Wooyoung says. He flashes a grin before pushes himself upright. He waves at Hongjoong before getting into spot. 

The piano starts with the beginning tunes.  Wooyoung’s smile immediately melts off his face as his body snaps into position. In the crowd he doesn’t stand out. He blends in with the rest of the bodies, following along with strict, drilled in movements. 

“He’s right, you know,” Seonghwa pops in. 

Hongjoong startles up. His pen scratches over the paper. Hongjoong hisses in annoyance. His gaze jerks up to glare at Seonghwa, who meets him with nothing but a teasing glimmer. His face twists into one of those tortured smiles, chuckles hidden behind his palm. 

“Goodness, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry,” Seonghwa apologizes, though his persistent giggles tell quite the opposite. 

His cheeks are rosy and he is slightly out of breath. He leans over to adjust his tights, evening out the bumps and hoisting it up. Hongjoong has never witnessed Seonghwa this disheveled, though it might not be as obvious to others. Hongjoong has spent a little too much time staring at Seonghwa after all. So much so it might start getting to his head. 

“You’re late,” Hongjoong says. 

Seonghwa hums. “I needed to meet up with someone. Also I’m not late, just later than usual.” 

“Shh, I’m working.” 

“As am I.” 

Hongjoong only glares at him once more. It has as little effect as the first time. It’s as if Seonghwa knows no fear. Hongjoong had been told before that his glower could crumble a castle wall. 

Hongjoong looks back at the crowd, eyes falling on Wooyoung’s twirling form. “Say, how old is Wooyoung?” 

Seonghwa follows his glance, eyes dulling. He picks at his sleeves, lips set. Wooyoung smiles as he prances, serious yet playful. He catches Seonghwa, waving at him, all teeth.

Seonghwa shakes his head. “Far too young.” 

“I don’t remember inviting the two of you over,” Hongjoong says. His fingers fumble with the buttons of his waistcoat. While he is used to wearing those, he dreads having to stuff himself into an overcoat too and, God strike him down, a bowtie. 

He has come to know the informalities in the ballet world, but the theaters are for the upper class, and he knows what a bunch of hobnobs they can be. He doesn’t want to invite any of that down-talking conversation. He runs his comb through his hair. 

“I wouldn’t want you to go into the den of lions without having seen our faces,” San says. “I thought I could give you some tips based on life experience.” 

“And I was bored,” Yeosang adds. 

Hongjoong glares through the mirror. “Nice to see at least one of you cares.” 

He opens the door to his wardrobe, pulling out a box filled with ties. It is a sorrowful amount. He tosses them out into his hand, counting a good three. 

Yeosang pulls his shoulders up. He tilts his head. “I can’t recall you ever looking this dashing. Also, choose the red tie. It is more of a statement.” 

“I agree with Yeosang on the tie,” San says. “But also, it feels odd to see you this formal.” 

“It’s a formal place.” 

“You’d be surprised.” San coughs into his palm, turning his head. He pokes at the bronze figures littered atop Hongjoong’s table. 

“Ah, don’t play with those,” Hongjoong whines. “It cost me a fortune to gather the materials!” 

“I’m not breaking them,” San mutters. His hands linger. 

Yeosang sighs. He gives San a sharp tap on the fingers like a school teacher. San yelps, cradling his ‘injury’ to his chest. He glowers, lips puckered. Yeosang pays him no more attention than his tantrums deserve. 

“What is the plan tonight, Hongjoong?” Yeosang asks. 

Hongjoong hums. “I’m actually not sure. Seonghwa was very adamant on inviting me. He said the colors are great during the shows. I’m assuming he wants me to paint the scene?” 

San gasps. He crawls over Yeosang’s laps and into the fauteuil closest to Hongjoong, leaning his body over the edge. Yeosang groans, jerking into himself. He offers an offhanded kick to San’s legs a beat too late. San has already curled out of reach. Hongjoong breaths out through his nose, shutting his eyes. He counts to ten. 

“You’re taking requests?” San asks. 

“Not quite,” Hongjoong says, nonchalant. “It’s more of a helpful suggestion. I wouldn’t have known, hadn’t Seonghwa told me.” 

“I heard of Seonghwa,” Yeosang says. “He is quite the celebrity. Sometimes the people in the park speak of him.”

“He is very good.” Hongjoong lays the ties around his lifted collar, fumbling. He has been taught once before and then never did it again. He hisses out a string of cuss words. 

“I heard rumors about men cooking his used up dance shoes into soup and drinking it,” Yeosang tells him. There is a controlled blankness to his voice and his face doesn’t twitch a bit.  

Hongjoong clears his throat into his fist. ”I think it’s time for you to stop inhaling the paint.” 

“I’m not joking! There are some crazy people out there.” Yeosang sighs. He leans forward, cupping his cheek. “But, how come Seonghwa? I have only ever heard you speak of him.” 

“That’s because he’s Hongjoong’s muse,” San sings. “He continuously strikes his soul down and yet Hongjoong, oh poor Hongjoong—“ 

“If you don’t cut it out,” Hongjoong hisses. “If you would have seen him in that light… It’s as if his features are carved out, and when he moves there is so much life to it. He tells stories. I only document them.” 

“Sure, sure, but—“ Yeosang’s grin means danger, “—as far as I knew, you were going to paint dancers. Yet all you have done is—how did you put it? Document Seonghwa.” 

“He has just taken up more time than I thought he would,” Hongjoong mutters. 

“And more space in your mind, it seems.” San jumps up. “Now come here. That bow of yours looks atrocious.” 

Seonghwa has to be an angel. That is the only clarification Hongjoong can muster when his eyes graze over him. He has to be blessed with Aphrodite’s touch, sculpted from divine ground. It is the only way he can clarify the gaze Seonghwa gives him through exhausted eyelids. 

They never speak much when they are together. Hongjoong is far too immersed in his art and Seonghwa is often quiet, observing rather than partaking. He speaks in gazes and in motions, in drawn lips and floating touches. 

Hongjoong has been in all kinds of love. He has been in love with the sunrise, with the thrill of life. He has been in love with the boy from the bakery handing him bread every Thursday morning and with the taste of softly melting chocolate on his tongue. Hongjoong has been in all sorts of love, and yet, the stirring at the pit of his stomach is a rush he has never seemed to experience before. 

To call it love might be too early, but the rush is all-consuming. Seonghwa’s eyes fall on him and Hongjoong is set ablaze. It’s as if he is of oil and Seonghwa is the fire. It’s overwhelming as it is large and Hongjoong burns in the middle of it all, in the orange licking fumes down to the simmering blues in his heart. 

There is a beauty to life that is the thrill. It’s the tingling in his fingers when he packs up his materials and trudges through the busy streets all the way to the dance studio. It’s the thrumming in his veins when he opens the door, waiting, expecting. It’s the rush of oxygen feeding the inferno when Seonghwa locks eyes with him. 

The light falls through the blinds and Seonghwa is golden.

“Are you certain—“

“Had I not been, I would not have asked you,” Seonghwa says. “If you want to immerse yourself, this is the way to do it.” 

Hongjoong keeps his eyes to the ground, shrunken into himself. Seonghwa fleets around him, reaching for hangers and whatnot. Hongjoong stands as still as possible to not be in his way. Seonghwa brushes past him, the tule of his clothing scratching Hongjoong’s skin. It leaves a burning sensation much like a rash. 

“What about the other dancers?” Hongjoong whispers. 

“My body, their body, the worth is all the same.” 

Hongjoong squirms between the swarm. He wonders why Seonghwa—or all of them, really—seem so comfortable with a stranger around them. They hop around and dress out of their stage clothes, pat away the remnants of makeup like he isn’t even there. 

He has to tear his eyes away when Wooyoung helps Seonghwa undo the clasps at the back of his costumes. Seonghwa sighs out in relief, rolling his shoulders and massaging them as the fabric pools around his feet. He steps out of it and tosses it over one of the chairs, finally allowed to get dressed in his usual attire. 

Seonghwa pats Wooyoung on the arm and spins him around, hurriedly helping him out of his contraption as well.

“It’s so fucking itchy,” Seonghwa mutters. “The goddamn costumers always value aesthetics over practicality. I’m sure they’ve never worn a thing they’ve designed.” 

“But we’re pretty!”

“Yeah, to look at.” 

Wooyoung presses his lips together at that, taking a step backwards. Seonghwa sighs, giving him a squeeze in the arm. Wooyoung lowers his head. 

“Are you going to stay around?” he murmurs. 

Seonghwa’s face scrunches up. “Stay around? Fuck, of course not. I’m beyond exhausted.” 

“You can’t leave!” Wooyoung yells.

Seonghwa flinches back. His fingers hover over his ear. “And why not?” 

Wooyoung shields his mouth with the back of his hand. “I heard Yunho is here.”

“Is he, now?” 

Seonghwa heaves a sigh. He slips his coat off his shoulders, clumping it up in a fist. He tosses it onto the vanity. He leans forward, brushing his bangs out of his face with a single finger, curling them up to precision. His heart-shaped lips spread into a smile, and though his eyes crinkle along with them, they don’t shine the way they had done on stage. 

“Well, then I must go greet him.”

Seonghwa slips through the crowd and out of the dressing room. Wooyoung doesn’t call after him, staring at Hongjoong through the mirror. Without Seonghwa here Hongjoong only feels more out of place, and Wooyoung burning holes into him makes his skin twitch. He wonders if this is what it feels like on the other side of the canvas. 

He spins on his heel. 

Seonghwa runs through the backstage halls without much issue, dodging the obstacles with practiced ease. Hongjoong hobbles after him with the grace of a newborn fawn. His elbow knocks into one of the props, earning a hiss and a swallowed curse. 

Seonghwa briefly glances over his shoulder, though doesn’t slow down. Upon reaching the final door he pauses. 

“Don’t be too surprised,” he says. “After the show can get quite rowdy. The foyer will be quite packed with some… prominent figures.” 

Hongjoong puffs out his chest. “I’m sure it’s nothing I can’t handle.” 

Seonghwa huffs out a laugh. “I sure hope so.” 

The foyer is suffocating. Every way Hongjoong looks there is another man who wants to ask him about his parents or his parents’ fortune. When they find out he is an artist they are less than amused, though they don’t hold back on the snide comments. Hongjoong thinks even the champagne is trying to punch him in the stomach. 

Seonghwa has disappeared into the crowd. There are many dancers still dressed in their frills mingling and giggling. There are hands traveling over chests and touches on waists. There are gifts being handed out and words whispered in ears. Hongjoong downs another drink. 

“There you are,” Seonghwa’s deep voice suddenly murmurs. 

Hongjoong jerks his head to the side. He closes his eyes, clutching his chest. He doubles over and groans. “Seonghwa, mon dieu, you’re a ghost in the night!” 

“You said you could handle it, but I saw you were very much lying.” Seonghwa has a flower between his fingers, seemingly picked from a garden. As a waiter passes by he tosses it in one of the glasses. “I didn’t mean to lose you, but I was held up.” 

“You were searching for someone?” 

“He will find me.” 

Hongjoong doesn’t ponder on the words. He sticks close to Seonghwa’s side, mood dimming each time someone walks up to Seonghwa to shower him with yet another compliment. Seonghwa receives them with a kind smile, though cuts the small talk short. 

If this is how the night is going to proceed, Hongjoong can’t wait to flee from the spot. However, he stays. He waits for Seonghwa, watches him interact with a sharp eye. He grabs a flute every chance he gets. By the time the final person reaches them, Hongjoong’s cheeks are rosy and his head dull. 

“Mon ange! You were marvelous on stage once again.” 

The man is tall, much taller than Hongjoong is. His eyes are round and large. They look at Seonghwa with sparkles in them. The man leans down and takes Seonghwa’s fingers, pressing a kiss to them. 

Seonghwa covers his mouth with a delicate hand, hiding the stretch of a smile. He hits the man in the chest softly. “Oh, Yunho, you flatter me.” 

“They are only flatteries if done in excess.” 

“You know your words are always far too much. You praise me too easily.” 

“Oh,” Yunho finally catches a glimpse of Hongjoong in the corner of his eye. He tilts his head. “Who must you be?” 

“He is a… friend, I suppose,” Seonghwa says, “of Bernot.” 

“Close acquaintance, I’d say.” Hongjoong holds out his hand. “I’m Hongjoong. I’ve been granted the opportunity to capture these dancers on the canvas.”

“Dancers do make fascinating subjects of study,” Yunho says. His gaze travels over to Seonghwa, looking down at him through half-lidded eyes. He snakes his arm around his waist, resting a large hand on his hip. “I must excuse us. Seonghwa and I have some private matters to discuss.” 

Seonghwa’s lips spread into a secret smile. He drops his gaze, his fingers intertwining with Yunho’s. Hongjoong can only be left wondering what it must feel like to press his touch down onto those hipbones. 

He can only watch as Yunho’s tall stature bends over Seonghwa, guiding him back to the coulisse. Their words are spoken too softly to be heard over the loud chattering. Hongjoong isn’t certain if he wants to hear them, no matter how much the curiosity is eating away at him. 

With a sigh he slips into a corner, slipping down on one of the vacant seats. All these people stand grand. They don’t bother to look down at him. The lights cast shadows over their eyes, coating their faces grim gray. Hongjoong shrivels up, eying the door Seonghwa had disappeared into. He knows. God, does he know, but he wishes not. 

This world is filled with filth. There are predators waiting around corners, always ready to bite, clamp down once they sink their teeth in. Hongjoong wonders if Yunho will leave his marks, if he will graze Seonghwa’s neck like a wild beast and litter his body with bruises in the shape of fingertips, hidden on his hips his thighs. 

“Hello, Hongjoong.” 

Hongjoong jumps. He clutches his chest, closing his eyes. “Wooyoung.” 

Wooyoung, too, has scrambled out of his attire, but the makeup is still heavy on his skin. It makes him look ghostly in the bright yellow lights, uncanny. His lips are too red, his eyes too dark. He looks like a doll on display rather than a human. 

“You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself,” he says. He plops down next to Hongjoong, their arms pressed together as he leans closer. 

Hongjoong clears his throat. “While I appreciate your concern, I am doing just fine.” 

“Hm, sure you are.” Wooyoung tilts his head. His grin grows twice as wide. “Why don’t I lead you to the quieter places.” 

Hongjoong frowns. “I’m not quite interested in that. My apologies.” 

Wooyoung’s face falls. “That wasn’t what I was implying. I just hoped I could help ease your nerves a bit. You look like you could jump out of your skin any second.” He bows his head. “If I offended you, I’m sorry.” 

Hongjoong’s ears burn, stomach twisting into knots. He covers his face with his hands. “God, Wooyoung, no. I should be the one apologizing to you. That was very ignorant of me.” 

“All forgiven.” Wooyoung grins. Hongjoong feels terrible for how easily he brushes it off. “The offer still stands.” 

Hongjoong purses his lips. He glances over the room. “I don’t think I should go before saying my goodbyes to Seonghwa. He was the one to invite me after all.” 

Wooyoung’s smile dims. “Seonghwa won’t be returning here. Not anytime soon, at least.” 

Hongjoong frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“Yunho is his patron. They’re… sorting business, so to say.” Wooyoung lets out a forced laugh, though it dims quickly. “He didn’t tell you?” 

Hongjoong’s heart turns to lead. It drops to the pit of his stomach, still-beating as the toxins permeate into his bloodstream. In shame of his ever-eloquent soul, all Hongjoong utters is, “Oh.”

Wooyoung looks at him with drooped eyes and his lips pulled into a wavering line. Hongjoong would like to describe the expression as pity, though he is unsure what for. He lays his hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. Wooyoung tenses up at the action, though doesn’t comment. He returns an owlish gaze instead. 

“Will you make it home alright?” Hongjoong asks. 

Wooyoung turns his eyes to the ground, a thin smile plaguing his lips. “Of course. After all, I have someone to meet tonight as well.” 

Hongjoong spends the night at the studio. His mind is still fresh with the soiree is burned into his mind. Seonghwa had been right. The colors truly had been more than he could have ever imagined. The lights had bounced off them with such an intensity Hongjoong almost felt blinded. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away, couldn’t avert his attention anywhere but on Seonghwa. 

His hands had drawn. Vague outlines of wavering figures dawned the page, and yet it was all vivid as it had been the moment Hongjoong had sat in the benches. He tries to translate it onto his canvas, yet is met with nothing. There is no life to it, no fluidity. It is an image, that is true, but it is something those cameras could capture just as well. It was all still. It was a figure, but not a being. Something that lived, that breathed, had a life beyond the canvas full of woes and aches. 

He falls asleep at his desk, his bunched up coat a far cry from a pillow. The cold wind runs over his spine, coloring his lips lilac and paling his fingers. He clutches the coat closer to him, grappling for a semblance to warmth. 

Hongjoong dreams of a dove that night. Its feathers are silver in the moonlight and its feet patter atop fog.The fog curls around it as if it’s trying to hide it away, keep it from Hongjoong’s view. He searches through the blue. It’s trembling, Hongjoong can see from the outline. It wavers and tilts, dropping and rising. Down, down, up. 

“If you’re hurt, why do you keep flying?” Hongjoong asks. 

The dove heaves a sigh. In a voice of velvet it says, “I must. If I don’t fly, where do I go?” 

“You can rest,” Hongjoong says. “Come down and rest. There is a spot next to me.” 

The dove chuckles devoid of any feelings. “My feet are bleeding. They’re cut and blistered and burned and pins are sticking out.” 

“I can hold you.” 

“But then you’ll close my wings.” 

The smoke eats the dove up. Hongjoong gasps and reaches out, but there is nothing left. As the fog clears and the sky resumes its mid-day simmer, the skies are empty. Hongjoong keeps a single feather in his palm. It’s crooked. 

The next morning he awakens with a cramp in his neck and cold hands grazing the sorest nick in it. He startles from his slumber, wild eyes darting around the area. 

The sun has risen. Judging from how golden it is and the damp sticking to the window it must be the wee hours of the morning. He rubs the sleep from his face, stretching out. His joints crack. He is sure to feel that for at least two days. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Yeosang’s voice rumbles from the side. 

Hongjoong doesn’t turn to face him. Yawning he says, “A more gentle approach sure would have been appreciated.” 

“I’ve been as gentle as can be,” Yeosang huffs. “If anything, the studio is no place to sleep.” 

“As if you don’t make late nights here.” 

“But I always make sure to awaken in my own chambers.” 

“Of course, of course.” Hongjoong glances over at Yeosang’s workplace. “You’re going to get busy today?” 

Yeosang nods. “I’ve come to pick up some supplies and then I’ll be heading out to the park. I’d like to be there before the seasons shift. Spring is at its prime! The gardens are in bloom.” 

“Flowers again?” Hongjoong teases.

“And fields and people and everything in between,” Yeosang assures him. He squints through the dew-covered window. “I must leave now if I want to catch the sunrise. Please, take care of your joints. With time, they will start aching on their own. Just be patient.” 

Hongjoong flicks his wrist. “Out with you.” 

Yeosang’s deep chuckles echo through the halls as the door slams back into its hinges. Hongjoong shuts his eyes to follow the sound of his footsteps tatter back to the outside world. Yeosang has always been somewhat of a walking question. Where San was very open and vocal about his unconventional ways of thinking, Yeosang was more reserved. 

He never bothered explaining his thought process, only commenting to trust him with the results. And results he brought. He silently pushed his way forward in the loud-mouthed art hub and established himself besides few of the best. His style—though he and San joked it was stagnant—was stable and steady and so distinctly him. 

Hongjoong respected him in that sense. Hongjoong was wild and unpredictable. If asked, he couldn’t recreate a piece. There would be variations and corrections, improvement wherever he could squeeze them in. He could not perceive a source and paint it in the same light twice. The world was ever-changing; Hongjoong liked to see himself as an extension of that. 

Le Académie had not always been his home. Back when he was a boy from the Parisian outskirts with dreams larger than his body it had seemed like the end goal. He had wanted to become a person whose paintings hung to be seen. 

He had begged Yonghwan to take him as an apprentice. He had trailed after him with a sketchbook claps in his fingers and canvases under his arms, trying to get the man to at least catch a glimpse of his work, of his potential. He offered to do nothing more than clean up after him, just so he could catch a glimpse of his work. Yonghwan—Eden, he was known as better, a prominent figure in the rise of the new art movement. Hongjoong had perceived him as a god, enamored by his world of colors and warped perspectives. 

He must have impressed Eden in some way, because for some miraculous reason he hadn’t kicked Hongjoong to the curb. After a while the cleaning cloths had been swapped for brushes and canvases. The apprenticeship had dragged Hongjoong right into the heart of Parisian society, all its dirt and glory. 

He gained people and lost some. Eden had soon enough moved along to try his luck in Italy. Hongjoong is yet to receive a response to his last letter, but he knows it should be well on its way. He met the members he’d cherish as members of his gild, and some assholes as well. Everyone was trying to make it while selling a statement, and they would do all they could to achieve it. Hongjoong wouldn’t call himself a better person than any of them. 

Hongjoong steps away from the canvas. There is a vague outline standing underneath harsh stage lights. It’s slightly orange, burning like a flame in the front of the canvas. There are dark shadows in the back, hidden between the curtains. Arms reach to the ceiling, feet barely kept on the floor. When Hongjoong looks at the blooms of the piece it feels dead. 

He dunks his brush into another dollop of paint, slapping on another layer. He navigates the canvas in strokes like a doctor searching for a pulse. He closes in to maybe catch a glimpse of the heartbeat, but it is empty. Hollow. Hongjoong’s arms drop to his sides. 

He can’t recreate memories. He forgets too soon. His dreams have always ran further than reality’s strides. 

“Have you always been in Paris?” Hongjoong asks Seonghwa. 

They are once again at Seonghwa’s apartment. It is quieter there, Seonghwa had reasoned. He didn’t want to disturb any of Hongjoong’s friends. Hongjoong had assured him they’d be less than bothered. They were barely ever in at all, opting to stay outdoors. If anything, he would be the one to suffer the short end of the stick. Their teasing would never cease. 

“Me? No,” Seonghwa says. “I was from the quieter parts. I grew up in the fields and the woods.” 

He is once again slumped against his windowsill. There is a cigarette between his fingers, smoldering. His back is curled up, not at all stretched out like they demand of him in the theaters. Not a single muscle in his body is tensed. 

“Have you always danced?” 

“Not in the way I have in le Symbolique, if that’s what you were wondering.” 

“But have you danced?” Hongjoong presses on. 

“I danced all the time. I danced in joy every time I felt it.” Seonghwa raises a brow at him. “What about you? Tell me about yourself? It’s always you looking at me.” 

His eyes shift, looking through lids and lashes. Though his face is drawn in a blank—the expression Hongjoong has gotten to know him with and continued to unravel—his eyes shimmer. Not quite like the night they had spent together, nothing that bright, but they shine with something knowing. A warmth, almost. 

Hongjoong freezes in his movements, contemplative. He wants to capture the moment before it’s gone, yet he doesn’t want to rush it. He wants to savor it, let it burn him like a church candle. Bestow him with blessings and prayers and cultivated until the heavens decided it was his time to dim. 

The expression holds, however. Hongjoong can feel its fire nip at his chest, eating away at him like a rat scavenging for food. He holds it in his hands and tosses away the craps he deems useless and eats away at the core. Hongjoong can only watch as it happen, watch the way Seonghwa consumes him bit by bit. 

“Then, what is it that brought you to Paris, Hongjoong?” Seonghwa asks. 

Hongjoong sighs. “Because it’s Paris! Seonghwa, it’s Paris!” 

“Paris?” Seonghwa sighs out a tuft of smoke. “Oh, Paris. City of love, of freedom, of vulgarity.”

Hongjoong shakes his head. “Paris is the city of the revolution. Where art walks in the lead.” 

“Paris is the city of broken illusions and rats.” Seonghwa turns to look at him, makes sure their eyes meet. “You may be fairing well, Hongjoong, but Paris is filled with artists. You are one of the few.” 

“As are you."

“Which is why I am replaceable. At least I am aware of it.” 

“I thought you to be sweeter than this,’ Hongjoong mutters.

“I am not here to be your friend, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa says. He looks out the window, his gaze trailing the people on the streets. “Soon enough you are going to let your heart wander and then you will realize I cannot fulfill your dreams. You are a painter and I am your muse, and we should not be more than that.” 

“What does it mean if my dreams repeat themselves?”

“Repeat themselves?” San asks. His head pops out from behind his canvas. Paint is smeared over his cheek. 

“Well, not quite,” Hongjoong says. “I dream of different places, and they say different things, but it is the same dove speaking to me.” 

“You’re speaking to a bird. In your sleep.” Yeosang raises a brow at him. “What does this dove say?” 

Hongjoong shakes his head. “Not much. That’s the problem.” 

“I sometimes dream of the stray cats biting me,” San says. “I don’t think you should think too much of what animals in dreams do. I think it’s far more dangerous what they do in the real world.” 

“Maybe it’s God,” Yeosang says. 

“I don’t quite think…” Hongjoong sighs. “I don’t think it’s the god you mean.”

“You look tired,” Seonghwa says. 

Hongjoong wants to laugh at the irony. Seonghwa is the one coated in sweat, with his hair in a tangled mess and groaning on the floor, yet he is the one who looks tired. Seonghwa runs his fingers through his strands, slicking them back. They fall into his eyes immediately. His hair is much longer than when Hongjoong had first seen him, now hanging in tufts atop his shoulders. 

“Well, I am tired,” Hongjoong says. 

“Why?”

“I was out at the studio last night. I lost track of time and before you know it the sun is rising.” 

Seonghwa hums, more so to himself. “You must do that often.” 

Hongjoong raises a brow. “What makes you say?” 

“That you often look tired.” Seonghwa releases a long exhale. He leans back, resting his weight on his arms. His eyes are shut. “You should rest more. Your art isn’t going to run from you.” 

“But my motivation will,” Hongjoong says. “My inspiration. I must cherish it when it comes.” 

Seonghwa shakes his head. “You have done more than enough today.” 

“But I have barely even spoken to you,” Hongjoong protests. “Let alone worked! I’ve strayed too far from my schedule.” 

“I’ve seen you working, you know. You’ve barely added another line to it. You’re not doing anything in this state.” 

Seonghwa cracks open one eye. It’s barely a gesture, but Hongjoong still shrinks underneath it. He wants to see more of Seonghwa, is the problem. Though he is exhausted and probably won’t add much to his work or produce anything that has quality, he still wants to try. He wants to stay with Seonghwa a little longer, hear him speak and answer Hongjoong’s endless curiosities. 

“Come to the park with me,” Hongjoong says. 

Seonghwa frowns. “The park? What on earth would we do there?” 

Hongjoong shrugs. “We could walk. We could sit by the water and watch the birds. Or the people. We could sit in the shade of the trees, if that is what you prefer. I thought…” He chuckles. “Ah, never mind. It’s alright, I won’t keep you busy.” 

“No, it’s fine. I would love to.” 

“You would.” 

“Give me a second to change, and then, yes, we can go to the park.” 

Seonghwa turns away from him. Hongjoong trails his eyes over the broad expanse of his back, the ribs sticking through his skin and the ripple of his muscles as he moves. 

Hongjoong thinks of the doves in his dreams. The ways its feathers had shone. In the silver of the moon, all seems lovely. Under a silver stage light all the same. 

Mon ange, a voice echoes in his mind. It’s deep and there is a grin in it and yet it feels wrong. Comparing Seonghwa to an angel, to this being of divinity and purity and then thinking such thoughts, there is nothing right about it. Hongjoong watches Seonghwa’s back and sees no wings, no indication that there had ever been any.

His stomach churns and Hongjoong sucks in a shuddering breath. Mon ange, like a torturous chant. Mon ange, mon ange, mon ange. 

“I can see you, you know,” Seonghwa speaks up. 

Hongjoong shifts his gaze higher. He meets Seonghwa’s eyes through the mirror. There is a smirk dancing on his lips. 

Hongjoong’s cheeks flare up. He immediately shifts his body, away from Seonghwa, away from the shame and the guilt. 

“It’s quite alright,” Seonghwa says. His voice jumps with airy chuckles. “I’m not upset, if that’s what you think. If anything, I’m a little offended you would turn away like that.” 

“Offended?” 

“I would like to think I’m something to look at. Have you gotten tired of me already? Seen enough of me?” 

“Never,” Hongjoong is quick to deny. “No. Of course… No.” 

“I’m only teasing, Hongjoong.” Seonghwa straightens up, twirling a hat atop his head. “Wrap up. It’s quite chilly.”  

His fingers fumble with the buttons of Hongjoong’s coat, tying his scarf up a bit tighter. “Alright. Allons-y.”

The park is a flurry of colors. Though the flowers have by now ended their bloom, the trees have shifted into reds and yellow. The first brown leaves come twirling from their branches as they pass underneath it. Seonghwa looks up with a soft smile on his lips. He reaches a hand up, trying to catch one of them. 

He hops a few steps ahead of Hongjoong, jumps in the air and twirls. It takes him a few tries before he finally has one in his grasps. He turns around, unfurling his fist for Hongjoong to see. It’s yellow, running into red at the edges like a flame. Seonghwa’s eyes sparkle. 

“Very pretty,” Hongjoong comments. 

“Is it not?” Seonghwa pushes it into Hongjoong’s palm. “There, for you.” 

“For me?” 

“Yes.” 

“How generous.” 

Seonghwa chuckles. “Cherish it well. I don’t hand out gifts to just anyone.”

Hongjoong pulls his sketchbook from his bag, placing the leaf between the pages. “There. Cherished forever.” 

Seonghwa watches him with a slight frown between his brows, lips pursed. It dissolves as quickly as it came. He clasps his hands behind his back, balancing one foot before the other. Hongjoong isn’t sure what exactly it is he is balancing on, but it’s endearing the way Seonghwa’s lips pout and his eyes widen when he threatens to fall. 

The sun is low in the sky, peeking through the trees in an orange hue. It blends into the early blues peeking from the horizon, meshing with the purples, a chromatic flutter like looking through a kaleidoscope. Seonghwa’s steps float. Hongjoong almost fears he has to hold onto him in fear of him flying away. Seonghwa tilts his head up, shutting his eyes. His breath slips through his lips as fog. 

“The park is always so pretty when autumn comes around,” Seonghwa says. “Despite the weather, its colors are always so warm. It’s as if nature dresses up one final time before preparing for their rest.” 

“It is beautiful,” Hongjoong agrees, though his eyes wander from away from the trees, from the wilted flowers and the dampened grass.

Seonghwa's face look softer now that it is tucked away into a scarf. It is red as cherries, red as his lips and the tip of his nose and the apples of his cheeks. All the sharpness has been wrapped away. His hair falls fuzzy over his eyes and he brushes a finger along the ends to clear up his vision. Hongjoong's fingers itch to do the same, to reach out and take his hand, intertwine their fingers and sway them along to the beat.

He has never been partial to touching people, would rather admire them from a distance, and yet Seonghwa makes him want to latch on. He wants to hold him, feel the softness of his skin and the poking of his bones, the tensing of his muscles. He wants to reach out to him and be sure his fingers won't fall through him. To touch Seonghwa to know he is real, and that what Hongjoong wishes is something true. 

“Is it not?” Seonghwa smiles softy. “Thank you for asking me to come along. I would have forgotten otherwise.” 

“I’m glad you like it this much. It was a bit impulsive of me.” Hongjoong kicks at a pebble. “You seemed apprehensive at first.” 

“I was surprised,” Seonghwa admits. “You’ve always come to me. We’ve never come together.” 

“I’m glad you agreed, despite that. I was afraid I had pushed my luck.” 

“You could say I was curious.” 

“Curious for what?” Hongjoong asks. 

“I’m not sure yet,” Seonghwa says. “Whatever it is you will show me. You’re… quite an odd fellow.”

“Odd?” 

“Odd.” 

Hongjoong huffs, though it’s playful. “You get described as a jewel, an angel, and I get ‘odd’.” 

“Well, people just say things. They don’t quite mean it,” Seonghwa says with a shrug. “A little pet name for my attention and company. It’s a small price to pay. A rock that shines and a thing that doesn’t exist, they don’t know what they are comparing me to.” 

Hongjoong opens his mouth, though he isn’t sure what to say. If he should say anything at all. His stomach twist with a deep-rooted shame. It gnaws at his insides, nausea shooting up his throat. He has been no stranger to such thoughts. He had put Seonghwa on the same line as something as unattainable as a biblical purity. At some point he had separated him and Seonghwa from being the same kind, praised him like a deity. 

Even now, Hongjoong can’t still the thoughts. Because to him, Seonghwa is a creature of the divine. He is carved from marble and brought to life, rather than dirt and clay. 

The streetlights are set aflame around them as the sun dims into a navy. Seonghwa has curled deeper into his coat, stuffing his hands into his pockets. His hair rise in the cold and he sniffs at the breeze just as any other human. He buries his cheeks in his scarf. 

Hidden away like this all Hongjoong can see is his eyes. Those deep, drowning eyes. Hongjoong’s heart clenches. 

“You always look at me,” he murmurs. 

“What do you mean?” Seonghwa asks. 

“Whenever I look away, when I return, you’re always already looking at me,” Hongjoong says. “When I paint you, you’re looking into my eyes as well. It’s like… Our gazes always meet.” 

Seonghwa hums. “I suppose I do.” 

“Why?” 

“Because it’s not how they look at me. It doesn’t matter how they look at me, that holds no weight. What means something is how I see them.” Seonghwa lifts his eyes. They carry the stars. “People come to look at me everyday, but I decided to look at you.”

“Aphrodite! Aphrodite, Aphrodite, Deathless Aphrodite!” Hongjoong calls. 

The clouds in the sky are a thick blanket, muting the thunder like the snow does the storm in winter. Hongjoong trudges through them with sludge in his boots. His fingers reach out as the dove flies from him. Hongjoong stumbles. The dove looks over its shoulder with a glint of pearls, deep black eyes that hold the universe. 

Its wings are crooked and despite that it keeps flying. Its belly is plucked pale pink. If this is the Goddess, Hongjoong no longer knows what love is. 

He falls to his knees, drops through the clouds. He keeps falling and falling, but his heart is still up there, where the rain can’t reach. He sees it hanging between the stars before the downpour blinds his vision. 

The dove circles around it with its big onyx eyes. 

“With this sorrow, with this anguish,” Hongjoong falls and falls. The clouds aren’t of cushions. They carve him with chill and their touch of ice, “break my spirit no longer!” 

“Welcome to my home!” 

Hongjoong throws the door open with a bit too much fervor. It slams against one of the walls with a crackle. Hongjoong cringes. He can already imagine the dent he will be seeing there. He will worry about that later, he decides. He urges Seonghwa to enter, carrying an easel out of the way. 

Seonghwa stands in the middle of it all. His hair is once again curled to perfection, his top undone. The strings hand loose over his chest. His pants hug the dip of his waist. He spins around on his heel, taking in everything in one go. He nods, more so to himself. 

He turns his head to look at Hongjoong. “It’s a mess.” 

“I have two people in particular over my floor all the time, so not all the mess is mine,” Hongjoong protests.  

“Hm.” 

“Organized clutter, I would call it. I know where everything is.” 

“If you say so.” 

Hongjoong doesn’t have it in him to argue. He continues setting up his workspace, watching from the corner of his eye how Seonghwa gets familiar with the place. He runs his fingers over the spine of books, the cushions of couches, the abandoned works Hongjoong has lying around. 

Hongjoong watches with as much fascination as Seonghwa shows for every piece of scatter lying around. His eyes go round, like deep-sea pearls. He sets the statue down, shifting it back into its original position with both hands. 

“Where do you want me?” he ask Hongjoong. He folds his hands together behind his back, rocking on his feet. “You know, I’m starting to think you’re straying away from dancers. I’m not doing anything that is remotely close to being a dancer. I’m only here. What happened to what you wanted to depict?” 

“I want to depict the beauty of life,” Hongjoong says. He glances at Seonghwa over the canvas. He had started it a day ago and the oil was still malleable, still open to change. 

“Why pick dancers, then?” 

Seonghwa glances at Hongjoong as he guides him to one of his chairs, just by the window. At this hour the lighting was the best. He could see everything on Seonghwa, nothing hidden by any artificial flickers. He hops back over to his place. 

“At first, I admit, I was only focused on the fluidity in movement, how to capture that. But yet, it still felt empty somehow. I looked at my work and I felt… nothing. There were moving bodies, but there were no eyes looking at me. No expressions telling a story.” Hongjoong breaths out a silent laugh. “I wasn’t quite sure what I was searching for. Pardon me if this comment is invasive, but I found what I wanted in you. You encapsulate stories and secrets. There is so much on display, so much to capture.” 

“As any human does, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa says in a low murmur. He smiles. “I am no different. I display emotions just as any other.” 

Hongjoong opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is constricted. Seonghwa’s gaze lays heavy on him. His throat is tight; if he attempts to speak it would come out as nothing more but a weak whimper. He swallows thickly, swallows his words and the lump along with it. 

He doesn’t respond, instead focusing on his work. He gets drowned in the colors, lets them consume him whole. The scent of paint is heavy in the air, as is the smelt of alcohol, pure and unfiltered. It burns his nose, but he is used to it. Has come to adore it, even. That slight tanginess that makes him dizzy. 

He runs his brush over the canvas, fleeting over to Seonghwa every now and then. He knows he will never do him justice, but he will do what he can.

As he works there is a burning sensation licking at his skin, stinging like cuts. Needle-thin paper cuts grazing just the surface, enough to make him hiss, to see the blood seeping from it and making the damage larger than it seems. Deep enough to hurt, but not enough to kill him.

Hongjoong dares. As a fool, he dares. He glances over the edge and is cut down. He never knew gems to be sharpened into knives, yet Seonghwa could strike him with a single glance. Or perhaps he had never looked away, chipping at Hongjoong without him noticing. A single cut is to oversee, but Hongjoong feels the gaze pierce his heart. leave him breathless. 

Even as he squirms, Seonghwa does not turn away. Hongjoong doesn't have the power to break it off. He releases a shuddering breath, scrambling for a different brush, a rougher one. Seonghwa may seem as the most polished jewel of all, but there is a roughness to him, a bold certainty. A diamond in the rough, full of worth, but for only few to see the inside. That pure, pristine middle of riches. 

Hongjoong doesn't think he will ever catch Seonghwa to his full extent. There will always be grime sticking to him, or perhaps a thousand years worth of sediment, covering him up, or perhaps to keep him hidden on purpose. Graze the surface, but never beyond. But his gaze is the window. It's fogged up and dark and so, so murky. It's dangerous and Hongjoong knows he shouldn't trudge through such waters, but his feet are already in and the sirens are calling. They're singing his name, waiting for him beyond the depths. 

Seonghwa is of sea foam, and Hongjoong is nothing but the sand it crosses. 

“You shine, you know,” Seonghwa says then. “Your eyes, they shine when you paint.” 

Hongjoong blinks. “My eyes shine?”

Seonghwa nods. 

Hongjoong shakes his head, laughing softly. “And here I thought it was your eyes that could light up a winter night.” 

“I think you are sorely mistaken,” Seonghwa responds.

“You are a lot more expressive than you think,” Hongjoong tells him. “When you dance, too, it’s your face that speaks along with your body.” 

“I like to get immersed,” Seonghwa says. “If you have a story to tell, it makes it worth something. Sometimes there are things words can’t express, no matter how hard you try. You can’t compress it into sentences. Something larger than yourself.” 

Hongjoong hums. He remembers the first time he had seen Seonghwa. He had left such a strong impression, every part of him seeming to have come with an edge and yet, now, closer to Seonghwa, he sees the soft curves, the smooth lines. 

He can see every freckle left there from the sun’s kisses, every pore and every mole. Now that he is closer, he looks more and more human. As if he had never been something more. And yet, he is untouchable. 

“How much more do you have left to do?” Seonghwa asks. 

“That eager to get rid of me?” Hongjoong teases.

“No, no,” Seonghwa is quick to say. “It just seems that every time we come together you seem to be working on something new.” 

“Well the thing is… this is the first actual piece I have done of you. All the others were inspired by you, in a sense. They show now face—at least nothing distinguishable. They show the art and… Well, I suppose it’s for you to see.” Hongjoong chuckles. “I don’t create for people to know to the details what I was thinking while working on it. It’s up to them to decide what they think about it.” 

“Wait,” Hongjoong then says. He slides out of his seat, though stops halfway, in between his easel and Seonghwa. “May I touch you?” 

Seonghwa’s eyes widen for a split second before they narrow. 

“It’s hard to explain your positioning,” Hongjoong explains. “If it’s alright with you, I could just set you into it.” 

Seonghwa’s lips pull into a thin line. He runs his gaze over Hongjoong, scratching every inch of his face. Hongjoong squirms underneath it, regretting ever asking. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, eyelids fluttering. 

“Sure,” Seonghwa agrees at last. 

Hongjoong runs his fingers over Seonghwa’s jaw, tilting his face into a quarter view angle. Seonghwa looks up at him with those eyes of gold. His irises glow like treasure glittering in the sunlight, specs of granite in them. Hongjoong has seen his fair share of eyes. He was sure he had seen enough of them when he had been forced to take up anatomy. He has a sketchbook filled with them.

Seonghwa’s eyes hold untold truths, they are beguile and alluring and Hongjoong finds himself sucked in. His eyes are golden in the sunlight, dripping with molten honey. 

Hongjoong releases a shuddering breath. He licks his lips, averting his gaze. “Sorry, I—“ 

Seonghwa’s curls a fist around Hongjoong’s shirt, pulling him down. Their lips collide together with a painful clash. Hongjoong has to stabilize himself against the table behind him to stop himself from tumbling. Unlike how Hongjoong had gotten to know him, Seonghwa kisses recklessly. He kisses with fervor and feverish desperation. 

Seonghwa kisses like a blazing bonfire in summer, an inferno to chase away the dark and all that lingers in it. He tastes like the midday sunshine and smiles, and Hongjoong flies to the clouds. 

He leans closer into Seonghwa, breathing deeply through his nose. He nips at his bottom lip, grazing it with his teeth. He runs his tongue over it. It is better than any wine Hongjoong had ever tasted. He wonders how he could have ever been with anyone who isn't Seonghwa, and now that he knows him, knows how he tasted, how it is to be close to him, Hongjoong isn't sure he would ever be able to return to not knowing about him. 

He lets Seonghwa swallow him up. He lets Seonghwa’s fire engulf him, makes his body food for the flames. 

Seonghwa is the first to pull away, his chest heaving. His eyes fall on his hand, still gripping Hongjoong’s shirt. His lips part, pupils blown. He releases him in an instant, running his fingers through his hair. He clears his throat, placing both his palms on Hongjoong’s chest. 

“Excuse me,” he murmurs. “I… have someone to meet tonight. It’s quite important.” 

He doesn’t look at Hongjoong, keeps his gaze just above him when he speaks. His shoulders are pulled back, chin held high. He lingers by the door for a moment, his fingers rested against the wood. He parts his lips as if he wants to say something, though shuts them again. 

“I will see you tomorrow,” he murmurs.

“Tomorrow,” Hongjoong agrees, dazed. 

Hongjoong watches his figure retreat, the door falling shut with a bang. It feels as if Seonghwa has left his heart in between the hinges, crushed it bit by bit with every creak. And so, the artist is consumed by his passion once again. 

Hongjoong has pages filled. He has drawn so much his hands could blindly recreate the lines, the delicate curve of necks, running down a spine. And yet he watches, mesmerized. Seonghwa had greeted him with just as much enthusiasm as he had usually. He placed his belongings just by Hongjoong’s side and smiled at him before he gained his position on the floor. From there on he was the same Seonghwa he had usually seen around here. 

It was as any other day—Hongjoong’s dejection aside. Wooyoung was sticking to Seonghwa’s side, though there is a frown settled between his brows. He looks over at Hongjoong and back at Seonghwa. Then back to Hongjoong. Hongjoong is pretty certain what they are talking about. 

Hongjoong sighs sketching the dancers down by the bar. Halfway throughout the class the door opens. Heavy footsteps make the floor creak. Hongjoong is too immersed in mindlessly drawing to care. It isn’t unusual for people to interrupt the classes. Bernot has done it more often than not, always having something to say—relevant or not.

The dancers fall silent before they disperse into whispers. Seonghwa’s face is drawn into a blank. He turns back to face the mirrors, stretching his calves. He briefly meets Hongjoong’s gaze through the mirrors, though quickly shifts it upwards.

Hongjoong follows his gaze and his heart sinks to his stomach. Yunho is standing tall in the back of the room, just where the sun doesn’t reach. Though his face is soft in features, the shadows carve it out. He looks over the room. It is then that he notices Hongjoong looking at him. He raises his brow at him. 

Hongjoong gives him a curt nod. “Hello.” 

Yunho breaks out into a grin. “Hongjoong, right? Ah, I thought that face looked familiar. Hello!” 

He sits down next to him. Hongjoong shuffles to the side to make space between the two of them. Yunho rests his arms on his thighs, leaning forward. Even like this he stands higher than Hongjoong’s crouched height. 

He peers over Hongjoong’s shoulder. “Hm, those are pretty good. You mentioned you were painting these dancers? A commission?”

“A project,” Hongjoong replies. “There will be an exposition in the gallery.” 

Yunho hums. “I see.” 

“Why have you come?” Hongjoong bites his tongue, cursing himself for asking. 

Yunho doesn't think anything of it, though his face glimmers with an amuser expression. He looks Hongjoong up and down, then nods, turning back to look ahead of him. 

“I came to oversee,” Yunho says. He chuckles. “I work with the production after all. And of course, to see Seonghwa.” 

“Seonghwa?” Hongjoong echoes. 

His eyes travel over the floor, watching Seonghwa practice a combination over the diagonal sphere. They move in groups of three per time, then returning to do it all over again. His hair flies along with him, arms seeming longer than they are when he extends them. He could fill an entire room with only his presence, draw in the eyes even of those uninterested. He is compelling, like a beacon in the night. 

“Of course, Seonghwa,” Yunho says. He, too, is watching. His eyes darken. “He is my angel, after all. I would only want the best for him.” 

Hongjoong’s fingers tighten around the charcoal. He takes a deep breath and forces a smile. “Then, I will leave you to it. Unfortunately I must go now. Have a good day.” 

He feels eyes burning in his back as he hurries to stash his things away. If he looks pathetic, so be it. Hongjoong has always worn his heart on his sleeve, and he has taken pride in it. If he is hurt he will make sure the whole damn world is aware of it. 

Hongjoong is quite disappointed to see San and Yeosang already occupying their studio. It is all their space—Hongjoong can’t forbid them from coming, but after having one of the most godawful interactions he’s had in a while, seeing more people was the last thing he wanted. 

But, there is nothing he can do about it now. He mumbles something of a greeting and installs himself in his own little corner of misery. The portrait is already on the stand. The oils from yesterday are still fresh. Sometimes Hongjoong detests oils. He loves their durability, the thickness of the layers upon layers, but their drying makes him want to tear out his hair. It’s as if he will never finish this portrait. Not in time. Never to be displayed. 

He isn’t sure if he ever wants it to be seen, now that he thinks about it. He trails his brush over the extension of an arm, adding a shine of blue to the outline. Blue, blue, miserable blue. 

“You’re grunting,” Yeosang says. “And if you’re not going to tell us what’s wrong, then stop drawing attention to your misery.” 

San gasps. “Yeosang.” 

“If he doesn’t want to say it, he shouldn’t draw attention to it.” 

“Seonghwa kissed me,” Hongjoong says. He strikes the canvas with another smear of paint. “He kissed me and then he left.” 

“Connard,” Yeosang mutters. “Then?” 

“Today it was as if it had never occurred,” Hongjoong continues. “And I was fine, I suppose. Riddled, but fine. And then his patron came.” 

San spins around on his seat, eyes wide and jaw dropped to the floor. 

Hongjoong chuckles lowly. “What am I against him? A man with money. A man who can assure him a future. But he kissed me, still. He kissed me. And, my soul be damned, was it the best kiss I’ve ever had.” 

“Then?” San urges. He bounces his chair in Hongjoong’s direction. “What will you do now? You’ve got pages filled with him? You’re enamored!”

“I don’t know, San.” Hongjoong sighs. “I will have to continue seeing him. I just want to understand why he did it. He regrets it, that I know.” 

“Then why are you sulking here?” Yeosang asks. 

His stack of paintings is filled, the ease of not getting close to subjects on display. Hongjoong wishes he could observe from a distance like Yeosang. Yeosang had always been so easy to move on from things, at peace with anything that came his way. At peace with himself. 

“I’m working up the courage,” Hongjoong says. “I’ve lost him without ever having him in the first place.” 

“Don’t think in extremes just yet. After all, love. Love, Hongjoong!” San exclaims. “One can never be wrong when he thinks with the heart!” 

Hongjoong shakes his head, chuckling. San continues quoting the famous poets on love, throws proverbs in the air. There is only one true happiness in the world, as Sand had said. It is to love and be loved in return. Hongjoong has been in all kinds of love. He has never once been hurt by it. 

Hongjoong pulls his tie straight in the reflection of a window. He hopes no one is hidden behind it; he already feels as embarrassed as it can get. He scrubs a remainder of paint off his cheek, cringing at how raw and red his skin feels beneath it.There is nothing he can do about it. He didn’t come here to look pretty. 

Seonghwa’s name is carved into a golden plate in cursive. The second floor on the right. Hongjoong sucks in a sharp breath. 

The doors creak under his weight and somehow it feels even more claustrophobic now that he is alone. Seonghwa had made it feel less constricting, somehow. The steps still creak. In the quiet of the night it is louder than a rifle. Hongjoong goes as slow as he can to minimize it. 

He fixes his jacket one last time, trying to mask the paint on his hands and the stains of oil in his shirt. He should have gotten changed before charging here. Eventually he gives himself a final kick in the ass. He rasps his knuckles over the wooden door. 

One second, two seconds. Hongjoong’s heart is about to spring from his chest. His mind is screaming at him, but he pushes it down. Three seconds, four—

The door pulls open, revealing a disheveled Seonghwa. His hair is tangled and his clothes crinkled. His mouth is open, eyes big. He straightens himself up, clearing his throat. 

“Hongjoong, what a pleasant surprise. Come in.” He steps aside, allowing Hongjoong inside. “Please don’t mind the smell. I was smoking. If you do mind you can open up the windows.” 

Hongjoong only nods. He shuffles his way to the windowed side of the apartment. The view stretches over the market square. It’s a lovely place, only a short walking distance away from where he spends the majority of his days. It must cost a fortune, and yet Seonghwa seems less than worried about it. 

Yunho’s face pops into Hongjoong’s mind, the smug glint in his eyes when he had taken a hold of Seonghwa right before his eyes. 

Hongjoong sighs, fiddling with the clamp. Eventually the thing budges. The window glides open without any creaking. 

“Thank you,” Seonghwa says. “Usually I’d open up the window myself, but I had been caught up in some thoughts. Take a seat, please. Can I help you to anything?”

“Oh, no that’s alright.” Hongjoong wonders whether he should sit down or not. He decides against it, standing awkward as can be in the middle of the room. 

Seonghwa seems to follow the sentiment. He crosses his arms over his chest, weight shifted on his right leg.“To what do I owe you this visit.” 

Hongjoong decides to cut the chase. The sooner it’s over, the better. If he were to get hurt, he rather it happen quickly. No need to twist a knife before pulling it out. 

“Why did you kiss me, Seonghwa?” he asks with a sigh. 

Seonghwa’s posture stiffens up. He curls his arms tighter around himself, gaze locked with the ground. 

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa bites his lip. “Let’s not. Let’s not dwell on it, please.” 

“I need to know,’ Hongjoong says, “If you want me to leave, I will, but please tell me first. Why did you do it?” 

“I can’t be with you, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa murmurs. 

“Do you love Yunho?” Hongjoong asks. 

“Yunho?” Seonghwa echoes, frowning. 

“Your patron.” 

Seonghwa straightens his back. “I’m not sure what he has to do with anything.”

His chest puffs up and his eyes darken. He looks like he does at the dance school, surrounded by others and a need to prove himself. 

“Are you restricting yourself because you are bound to him?” Hongjoong presses on. 

“Yunho is a kind man.” 

Seonghwa’s voice is flat and controlled, but Hongjoong can hear the tremor beneath it. He can see the slight shaking of his pupils. 

“But do you love him.” It is no longer a question. 

Seonghwa frowns. “Hongjoong, you can’t just throw around the word love? If this is your way of claiming you love me, I’m going to have to reject you.” 

“Seonghwa, do you love him?” 

“Love? Love? I don’t know shit about love, Hongjoong.” Seonghwa laughs. It scratches against the walls. “I don’t love, Hongjoong. And I know what you want from me, but I can’t be that for you.” 

“Then don’t! But don’t kiss me if you don’t mean it. Don’t kiss me with the intention of taking it back,” Hongjoong says. “You may not love, but I do. And I love with all of me, so if you are going to give me half of you, I would rather have nothing at all.” 

“Hongjoong.” Seonghwa’s voice comes out shaking. “I’m happy with you. I’m the happiest I’ve been.” 

“Then why hesitate?” Hongjoong whispers. “I’m right here.” 

Seonghwa leans forward. It’s much as the first time, just as explosive. He lets out a sound akin to a cry. A dull throbbing spreads over Hongjoong’s mouth, but it is soon washed away by the soothing of Seonghwa’s plush lips. They are soft, as Hongjoong knew them to be. Seonghwa was a person who knew how to take care of himself and he did so with diligence. They’re the shade of roses and sting just as much. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Hongjoong murmurs. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” 

Seonghwa doesn’t respond verbally. His fingers slip over Hongjoong’s shoulders, right underneath his coat. He pushes it off, pressing his lips to Hongjoong’s neck. Hongjoong lets the coat drop to the ground, letting out a gasp. Seonghwa nips at the skin of his neck, trailing his tongue down it as he works the strings of Hongjoong’s shirt. They part only to take it off before Seonghwa has stolen his breath once more.

Hongjoong rushes to do the same for Seonghwa. They stumble onto the bed, their bare chests pressed together. Seonghwa clambers into Hongjoong’s lap, twisting his hips against his clothed crotch. 

“Fuck,” Hongjoong breathes out. “Fuck, Seonghwa.” 

“Do you want me?” Seonghwa asks. He kisses Hongjoong’s lips. 

“Yes. God, I’ve been mesmerized with you since I saw you.”

“You will love me?” 

“Always.” 

Seonghwa presses himself closer to Hongjoong. There is smoke on Seonghwa’s tongue, sending a rush to his head. It makes him dizzy, colors the world achromatic for a moment. Hongjoong’s oversaturated world turns black and white. He shuts his eyes, letting the dizziness settle. 

His fingers dip into Seonghwa’s trousers and he slides them down. He turns them over, pressing Seonghwa into the mattress. The bed frame creaks. It’s barely large enough to fit them both. He tugs Seonghwa’s pants down, leaving him naked to the world. 

He had seen Seonghwa undress countless times before, but doing it himself sent tingles to the tips of his fingers. He trails them down Seonghwa’s chest, feeling every inch of him he had only gotten to observe in these past months. He lets his hands wander, tries to lock them his memories so he can recognize him even in the dark. 

Seonghwa shivers, jolting slightly. “Tickles,” he admits, cheeks staining red. 

Hongjoong giggles. He presses their lips together, then trails them down his throat, onto his protruding collar bones. Seonghwa whimpers, arching into Hongjoong. His fingers tug Hongjoong’s hair, the overgrown tufts hanging in his neck. 

He peppers kisses down Seonghwa’s thighs, across his abdomen. His fingers leave dents in the soft flesh, feeling every tremor, every tremble. 

He sees Seonghwa’s body coated in a layer of moonshine. Sweat isn’t supposed to look beautiful, it isn’t supposed to look like a secluded lake under the stars. A place Hongjoong goes when he wants to be alone but not lonely. He wants to write poetry on Seonghwa’s skin with the tips of his fingers, paint him like strides of a brush stroke. He wants to make Seonghwa his horizon, his dusk and his dawn. 

Seonghwa looks up at him with eyes of black moissanite. His bottom lashes are glistening with tears, his lips red-bitten and swollen. His cheeks are dusted in the shade of overripe peaches and just as soft. When he whispers Hongjoong’s name into the night, Hongjoong wonders why he had ever bothered listening to symphonies. 

Seonghwa is no more than a man. He has bones jutting out, painful and sharp, and he has a tongue of venom. But those eyes, those gemstone eyes with the shine of the North Star, they make Hongjoong forget all that encapsulates Seonghwa in this earth and he paints him divine. 

When in love, something as simple as eyes can become your entire universe. Hongjoong forgets why he ever wanted to lay underneath any other sky. 

“Come down,” Hongjoong calls. His eyes are stinging and his throat feels tight. His ears are filled with cotton fuzz. “Come down, please. Stop flying so high. It’ll only hurt.” 

The dove is circling the sky, right atop Hongjoong’s head. The heavens part. The dove is larger this time around, its silhouette behind the clouds. They rumble and flash, even though the sky is blue. The grass dances with yellows, hard underneath Hongjoong’s bare feet. The aftermath of drought.

“Come down.” Hongjoong’s voice wavers. “Seonghwa, before you fall.” 

Seonghwa. Seonghwa, Seonghwa, Seonghwa. The weeds sing the name and Hongjoong falls to his knees. It’s raining feathers. They cut into Hongjoong’s flesh, red dripping into the fields and turning them orange. His blood waters them down and blooms roses, curling around themselves with their stems of thorn. It looks much like the harvesting season, when the rye is ready to be cut down. 

Hongjoong turns his head upwards. The dove starts descending. It cuts through the clouds, diving together with the feathers. He flutters in circular motions, gliding over the wind. It is then that Hongjoong realizes the dove is not quite a dove at all, not the dove he had in mind at least. 

Seonghwa thumps onto the ground with a force that knocks Hongjoong over. He clambers back up. Seonghwa stands before him with his hands balled to fists and his chest pumped out. His chin is held high, his eyes fleeted down. The shadows hollow his cheeks out. 

From his back sprout a pair of wings, spread wide. The sky falls down on them, but the stinging is reduced. Hongjoong watches how the grass around him snaps in half. The feathers stick from the ground, coloring the field white. If he steps out, he is sure to lose his feet.

Seonghwa has his wings shielded over him, his expression grave. His sharp brows are set in a frown. 

“What if they cut you?” Hongjoong asks. 

“It’s not me you need to worry about, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa says. “I’ve had my share. It is you who is bleeding.” 

The foyer is crowded. Hongjoong can barely see over the people or make it across without at least one person bumping into him without apologizing. Hongjoong brushes it off. Thankfully as he walks along the walls he runs into Wooyoung, who looks all too glad to have Hongjoong whisk him away from the man who had been vying for his attention. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you around here,” Wooyoung says. He adjusts the bodice of his costume with a wriggle. “So?”

“Have you seen Seonghwa?” Hongjoong asks. 

Wooyoung’s doe eyes grow. He purses his lips. “He should be in the foyer. He was out of the dressing room quite quickly, but his coat is still here, so he can’t have left.” 

Hongjoong nods his head. “Thank you, Wooyoung.” 

Wooyoung does a curtsy. “Glad to be of service. Now can I stay with you until you run into him?” 

Hongjoong holds out his arm for Wooyoung to link with his. Wooyoung jumps to hold it, his grin bright as the rising sun. He tells Hongjoong about how he managed to get a bigger closet for his clothes and is now only waiting to be able to fill it up. He complains about how his shoes were two sizes too big and even though he had told Bernot, they still had gotten it wrong. 

Hongjoong lets him ramble, chuckling along with every other comment. The time seems to tick by with Wooyoung by his side and the superfluous amounts of champagne in his system. Eventually Wooyoung spots something across the room. Hongjoong is sluggish to follow. By the time he notices, Wooyoung has slipped from his spot. 

Seonghwa looks disheveled. His cheeks are rosy and his hair is tangled, despite the clear effort to put it back into place. His clothes are crinkled and untucked, the buttons of his top undone. He puts on a grin. “Hongjoong? I thought you didn’t come to shows.” 

“I thought I could come by tonight.” Hongjoong smiles through gritted teeth. He opens his arms. 

Seonghwa looks over his shoulder before he slips into them. The tension is still high in his shoulders. 

“Is it okay for you to leave?” Hongjoong whispers into his ear. 

Seonghwa nods a single time. It is all Hongjoong needs to whisk him away. 

They are silent when they enter Hongjoong’s apartment. Hongjoong sets aside a few forgotten canvases to make room for the two of them. The ones that had tried he’d opted to take home. The studio was already cluttered enough. If he was going to hoard, he’d rather do it in the four rooms of his home. 

The exhibition is approaching and Hongjoong might have brought the most. He won’t ever be able to top this, but he is at peace with it. His heart is filled with Seonghwa, as are his pages, his tissues and his books. He has Seonghwa scattered over the place.

Seonghwa is playing with one of the tissues Hongjoong had painted him on, holding it up against the light. It falls through it like the stained glass in churches. Hongjoong imagines the way the colors spread over Seonghwa’s cheeks, the stains of the heavens seeping into his pores. 

Hongjoong washes the sweat and strain off Seonghwa’s back. They’re curled into each other in Hongjoong’s bathtub. It had costed him way too much, but he thinks he deserves a bit of luxury every now and then. He presses a kiss to Seonghwa’s neck, running a sponge down his skin, 

Seonghwa sighs out in relief, leaning into him. “When you’re done, I should go see your exhibit. You’ve been so secretive.” 

“You’ve seen my sketches.” 

“But those aren’t finished works.” 

“Even in vague lines you are gorgeous.” 

“I know,” Seonghwa mumbles. “You capture me so well. It’s fascinating, to see the way you see me.” 

Hongjoong hums. He abandons the sponge and rubs Seonghwa’s shoulders, running his hands down the curve of his spine and down to the dip of his waist. 

Seonghwa stutters out a breath. “Hongjoong.” 

“Hm?” Hongjoong mouths at the base of Seonghwa’s neck. 

Seonghwa sighs out, leaning his weight into Hongjoong. He revels in the warmth of his body now that the water around them has cooled. They should probably be getting out soon, lest they want to catch a cold, but the pressure of the water takes the strain off his muscles and Hongjoong’s touch sends a warmth to the pit of his stomach. 

Seonghwa intertwines his fingers with Hongjoong’s, running his thumb over his knuckles. He brings them up to his lips. Water drips down his chin, falls like ripples in the water. “What if I can’t give you all of me?” 

Hongjoong kisses down Seonghwa’s jaw. “I shouldn’t have expected it from you.” 

“I want to,” Seonghwa murmurs. 

“I know.” 

The water sloshes over the edge. It lays as a coat over Hongjoong’s tiles. Hongjoong watches their reflection in it, blurring out with every new wave sent over the edge. 

The next morning is slow. He awakens in Seonghwa’s arms, looking up at his deep, dark eyes. His lids are thick with sleep, but his irises are dark as the ouranos. Hongjoong counts the constellations he can find in them. 

Seonghwa doesn’t speak. Hongjoong doesn’t need him to. They kiss as the sun rises. Seonghwa has his fingers tangled in his hair. Hongjoong’s name spills from his lips like a prayer, a call for the heavens above. Hongjoong takes his time. 

Tomorrow he will finish his paintings. Today, he will live. 

Hongjoong runs his brush over the canvas. It is blue all over. Somber, monsoon blue. It is the bleakest he has ever painted, and yet he holds it closest to his heart. It’s not as explosive as his usual work, not as bold. It doesn’t scream for attention in the same way. 

He traces the outline of the dancer’s body with his eyes, tries to remember just where the light had colored his body in liquid gold. He can’t quite remember. 

This painting was never meant to be made. He had been over the moon when he started it and far too delirious with confusion when he had picked it up. And now continuing it he was too numb with unsettled grief.

Everything of the past events runs through him like a lucid dream, where he had been conscious, but not awake. The sounds echo through his ears with a dull thrum after them. The shadows of the painting laugh at him. He sighs. 

“Hongjoong,” Yeosang calls from across the room. 

Hongjoong snaps up. “What is it?” 

“Will you continue sulking and lamenting here?” 

Hongjoong blinks. “What?” 

Yeosang pulls up his shoulders with nonchalance. He doesn’t face Hongjoong, but there isn’t a single frown on his features. He polishes down a bronze figure of what Hongjoong assumes is a dog. He hopes Yeosang has never encountered a dog that looks that way.

“You can stay here and wallow in your self-pity, use your art as some type of escape and maybe feel fulfilled for some time, or you can head out and get answers. They may not be the answers you want to hear, but at least you will have certainty.” Yeosang finally turns around. He tosses the statue aside, dissatisfied. “You don’t want to live a lifetime wondering if there is anything you could have done.” 

San head pops out from behind his easel. There is paint all over his cheeks, running down his neck too this time, and a pout on his lips. “Why are you acting like you won’t ever see him again? He is a street away!” 

“I…” 

“Exactly!” San exclaims. “Mon dieu, Hongjoong. You truly are a fool.” He shakes his head, solemn. “The lowest a man can fall is into love.” 

Hongjoong narrows his eyes. “That is not by any of the great authors.” 

San sticks his tongue out. “You make me a poet.” 

Hongjoong looks at the painting from a distance. When peering too close, one often loses perspective of the actuality of things. The figures loom in the shadows, though are unseen if not dwelled on and the dancer is too large, too close to the foreground. His feet are weightless and he is soaring, in motion as if the wind is sweeping him away. The tule of his costume is tearing, fluttering as the leaves from the trees. 

Hongjoong turns and leaves the studio in hurried stride. He doesn’t turn to look at the painting even once. He doesn’t even plan on displaying it. The streets are cold now that winter has started closing in. There is no hint of snow yet, but it’s only a matter of time before everything is coated in a layer of frost and put to sleep. 

The lights in the ballet school are burning. Hongjoong invites himself inside. He dusts off his coat and scrapes his feet over the rug. His eyes fleet around. It is as he has left it. As if it had been that long. 

He trudges through the halls, barely dodging a flurry of dancers. He slams his hand down on the front desk. Bernot startles away from the book in his hands. He readjusts his glasses, gasping. 

“Bernot!” Hongjoong greets. “What a pleasant surprise! I was searching for you!” 

“Hongjoong, what are you doing here?” Bernot asks. His gaze fleets around, falling anywhere but on Hongjoong. 

“I was wondering if Seonghwa was around,” Hongjoong tells him. 

Bernot’s face falls. “Oh, I assumed he would have told you.” 

“Told me what?” 

“He left for London.” 

“Oh.” Hongjoong nods. “When will he be back.”  

“Oh, Hongjoong…” Bernot shakes his head. “The question is if.”

“Oh.” Hongjoong doesn’t think. He doesn’t feel. His world of saturation flickers. He looks down at his hands. 

The dreamscape settles back over his skin, seeping into his pores and bringing that dulled edge back around his perceptions. The feathers cut through his heart. He wonders if when he opens his mouth he will cough up blood.

He spreads his fingers over the desk. “I… if you will excuse me.”

Hongjoong leaves before he can make a larger fool of himself. His throat clogged up, pressure building up behind his eyes. He mumbles a greeting to Bernot before he leaves, thanking him for his service. 

Bernot looks after him with molten eyes. Hongjoong doesn’t spare him the time to drown him in sympathy and pity. Bernot is a man of business; it doesn’t feel right for them to be in such a situation.

He wanders through the streets, by the place he has come to know as Seonghwa’s home. The windows are empty. There is no figure in the windows, no ashes snowing down. Still he stands, watching, waiting. There is no shadow looming. Seonghwa hadn’t taken the time to fade. He had been an image cut from a storybook, leaving a gaping hole on the page in his shape. 

And Hongjoong stands there. The clouds are gray and empty, no shadows lurking behind them like in his dreams. No one to come down to him, warn him, hold him. There are no birds. Paris has no doves.