Archive of Our Own

“Today a great tragedy has befallen this world. At 5.53pm, 3rd of October, actor Choi Yeonjun has been confirmed dead after a fatal car crash—“ 

And just like that, Soobin’s world shatters. It comes apart into a million fragments, flying up, spreading on the tiles of his kitchen. Soobin pick them, watches the images painted on them like stained glass and remembers. 

<><><>

Soobin knows he’s famous. He knows it from the tabloids with his face plastered over them, the posters with his name in bold letters, his picture snapped on the red carpet. He knows he’s famous, but he truly realizes it when he’s surrounded by a crowd screaming his name, cameras flashing in his face as he joins his co-stars and strikes a pose.

The cameras flash again and Soobin slaps on an even bigger grin, the one where his eyes disappear and his dimples deepen, showing off his perfect row of pearly whites. He knows that’s the one that makes the public. He clutches onto his bag a little tighter, not certain where to look with all the calling of his name, all the questions and screams chucked at his head. His eyes travel over, shift to the right without him meaning to, and he sees him. 

Choi Yeonjun, dressed in all black, leather jacket and white tank, Converse High Tops. He’s the teenage dream, the excitement, the thrill. Yeonjun is a rebel for the hell of it. That’s what the media tells Soobin. He’s a heartthrob and a heartbreaker, drives fast cars and breaks the rules because he feels like it. 

He stands here, besides their main actress, Lee Eunji, leaned back slightly, lips stretched into a smirk. His sunglasses lie low on his nose bridge, threatening to slip. He doesn’t seem to mind, running his fingers through his thick, black locks. He tilts his head to side slightly, smiling. 

Their gazes cross. 

Yeonjun lifts a brow. The smile turns from fake to amused. He winks. 

Soobin is blinded by a flash, but he’s sure they caught his jaw dropping. They’re rushed into the plane, but Soobin barely notices anything. He waves, distracted, in the direction of the crowd. He doesn’t remember much of what happens next. The crowd gets smaller, their engines roaring and they’re up in the air. 

“Soobin.” It’s Eunji calling him, so Soobin looks. She smiles at him. “Have you heard? The set is going to be beautiful. It’s almost like a castle.” 

“A castle?” Soobin replies for the sake of conversation. He appreciates it of course, how Eunji has taken it upon herself to make them comfortable, though he’s not sure he can return the energy now. 

Eunji hums in excitement. Soobin has seen her on the big screen before. She’s usually the girl next door, or an adult version of said role. Sweet, bright, the good girl. She’s young, though older than Soobin. More experienced, given she doesn’t seem the least nervous about this. It’s the biggest project Soobin has received yet, with three big names on the posters. The jitters resonate through his bones, though he isn't sure if it's because of the get-together or the fact he's never flown. A homebody to point of concern. 

“Have you ever been to Italy, Soobin?” Eunji asks. She’s beaming, bouncing in her seat. “I’ve only been to Rome, but Rome is not like this. Not at all.” 

“Oh.” Soobin nods. “What is this like?” 

Eunji tells him about all the things she’s read about the location. There are legends as every small town has, however none are worth mentioning. The most exciting is one about a mermaid stranded on a hill and turning into a well. 

“How is that not worth mentioning?” Soobin says. “What’s the story behind that? That’s so weird.” 

“Well… I haven’t read that far,” Eunji admits sheepishly. “It was a long chunk of text, okay! I have lines to read, too!” 

She giggles. Soobin laughs along with her. The daze has died down and he can think again, can process what’s going on outside of them. 

“Legends, they’re never true, anyway,” Yeonjun cuts in. “Why keep talking about them?” 

Soobin’s attention falls onto Yeonjun again, just like that. He has his eyes shut, but they lazily flutter open as he speaks. It’s a dead tone, a little pitchy. He doesn’t look at them when he speaks, instead focuses ahead of him, zoned out like he’s not actually awake, like he’s speaking in his sleep without a filter for his thoughts. 

“Talking about them keeps them alive,” Soobin says, frowning. 

Yeonjun shrugs. “Maybe the legend wants to die.” 

Soobin bites his tongue, holds it in for the sake of them. Yeonjun shuts his eyes again, arms crossed. Soobin isn’t sure if he’s asleep, too nervous to check. Something about Yeonjun is untouchable, makes him so. It’s not the black attire, no, because Soobin has seen teenage boy dressed up just like that, smoking cigs on the block and driving their parents’ cars. It’s the invisible barbed wire wrapping up around Yeonjun, the walls surrounding a prison. It’s the caution he spreads out when he narrows his eyes. 

He wants to be left alone, and so Soobin does. 

Eunji shares the sentiment. Their conversation continues, in whispers this time, afraid to disturb the sleeping bear. Over the rumbles of the engine and Eunji’s heated mumbles Soobin looks over. The glasses have slipped, resting on Yeonjun’s lips as he snores. He looks sweeter like this. Soobin tears his gaze away. 

<><><>

Soobin grew up on the countryside, beyond the hills, so the familiar air of the open field feels like a whiff of nostalgia. It isn’t the same, of course — it’s a whole different country after all —, but it’s not the city and Soobin is more than glad to settle with that. The city had always felt too crowded to him, people everywhere, every corner, waiting for him. It comes with the job, he knows, but there is something more comforting about the evergreen. They aren’t staying here, of course. This is only for filming. They’re staying in a hotel half an hour drive away, but Soobin’s heard the traffic is hard to predict in these parts. 

The air is yellow, feels yellow, sun rays dancing on his skin, kissing it into a sweet summer tan. The sweat is beading at his forehead, threatening to roll down and ruin the caked layer on his face. The makeup artist dabs it away, cursing the heat. 

Soobin grins, still, and disagrees without them hearing. He’s in awe at his surroundings. It’s beautiful. The hills are like swirls in the landscape, trees popping up, crooked and bent, growing sideways, twisting. It’s wonderful to see. There are wine fields a little further, workers nursing them into the harvesting season. 

They’re setting up the equipment as Soobin gets the finishing touches on his lips, a last ruffle of his hair. His eyes are running over his lines. The first scene they’ll film is far from the most exciting, but stories need dull moments to have the dynamics effulgent. Create contrast, keep it interesting. It’s a simple scene with regular — of course still relevant — conversing, a stroll through the hills. 

It’s an easy scene to start with, test the waters, feel the chemistry and essence of his co-stars. They’ve met before, of course, to run the lines over, discuss the project, finalizing paperwork, but there’s a different air to it one set, glammed up, ready to become different people. There isn’t much speaking, instead a lot of being. They have to converse with their bodies, like they know each other well enough for that. The clipper clicks and Soobin transforms. 

He’s done this times and times before, knows how it’s like to be someone else. He leaves Choi Soobin behind and becomes a character on screen with a different name, a different life. He’s in love with a girl, comes from a family who owns land, Old Money. He’s confident, charming, and…

And he’s in love with a girl, but he can’t see her. He doesn’t perceive any of her. If someone were to ask what she wore in her hair, Soobin would guess a bow and pray for his luck. Her dress? Probably blue. Dotted? 

He’s in love with a girl, but he has no eyes for her. Instead he finds himself under Yeonjun’s spell. His hair is black, waxed so it shines. The comb marks run through them, but a few stubborn strand curl around his forehead, brushing it, hanging in his eyes, but Yeonjun doesn’t mind them, can’t. 

Soobin’s fingers itch. The discomfort must be immeasurable, annoying, scratchy. He wants nothing more than to fix them out of Yeonjun’s eyes, those lazy, feline eyes, scrutinizing, untouchable. They glow, sun bringing out the tangerine tinges hidden within the brown, like they belong amongst the stars. Soobin is staring, but he doesn’t want to stop, despite what his brain is asking — begging — of him. 

For the sake of the movie, for the sake of his career, for the sake of himself he should tear his gaze away, but he doesn’t. Yeonjun is a star in more than one sense; he shines wherever his path leads him, a charmer, a witch casting a spell. 

Choi Yeonjun is a mystery, a code who refuses to be cracked. He is a puzzle with his pieces messed up, yet the image feels complete, looks the part. The colors are right, the sky seems blue, but they don't fit, not the way they're supposed to. But that is up close, when you truly perceive him for what he is and hides. 

Yeonjun looks back at him, cocks his head to the side. He doesn’t look away either. The lazy glint, the laidback air lifts and Yeonjun’s eyes grow, turn to melted chocolate, soft, sweet, like those of a kitten, curious. A small creature wondering about the world. 

It was the first time Soobin had seen that look on Yeonjun, the look he would come to cherish the most, the one the media never got to see. The look only Soobin knows, one kept in memory. It will fade in time, but the heart remembers. 

“Uhm, guys? You’re not supposed to be fighting for me yet,” Eunji interjects, tone light, as if she’s trying to save the mood.

Soobin sinks away. He mumbles out a quick apology, but Yeonjun only rolls his eyes. It’s lighthearted, however, not like Soobin initially expected of him. 

“Got too internalized there for a second,” Yeonjun says, though he’s looking at Soobin. “I’m very easily immersed.” 

<><><>

“I’m so glad you’ve decided to join us!” Eunji drags Soobin along to the bar, sits him down next to some members of the staff. 

It’s the end of the day, a long day and all Soobin needs is to wind down, but he wants to remain on everyone’s good side as well, so here he is, surrounded by near strangers he hopes to keep as fond acquaintances, smiling, bowing. 

“It’s good to be on good terms with coworkers, don’t you think?” Eunji babbles on. She orders for him, doesn’t ask what he wants. 

Soobin nods, mindlessly, accepting a whiskey from the bartender. “It is.” 

“It is, right,” Eunji repeats. There is more she wants to say. Soobin can tell. She’s fidgeting, eyes darting. She opens her mouth like the words are going to spill, however decides to swallow them, tuck them back into the spot they came from. 

Soobin doesn’t rush her into it, doesn’t know if he wants to hear at all. They sit in silence, sipping at their drinks, careful not to meet eyes. It’s silent and not in the way that is comfortable. It’s silent, gnawing at Soobin’s chest, the nerves of what’s to come, a storm to render. 

Then, cautious, Eunji speaks. “The tension between you and Yeonjun… It’s a little weird.” 

“Tension?” 

“You two are rivals, no?” 

“Rivals?" Soobin echoes, mouth dry. "I haven’t met Choi Yeonjun ’til before this project. I’ve seen him on the red carpet, yes, but I’ve only ever spoken to him about work. The first meeting is when we were formally introduced for the first time.” 

“Of course, of course, but,” Eunji pauses with a sigh, “you don’t have to know each other to feel rivalry. After all, the both of you are big stars. Both leading males. You’re always set up against each other. It’s only natural to feel a little tension between the two of you, but for the sake of working together, it would be great if you two resolve it.

“Don’t get me wrong, Soobin, it’s not because I think it’s on your side, but… Well, to be frank, Yeonjun is a bit of an intimidating fella. I don’t want to burn my hands on him.” 

“There are no ill feelings between us, I can assure you,” Soobin says. “I admire Yeonjun and his work greatly and it’s an honor I get to work with him.” 

Glass to her lips Eunji sighs again. “Sure,” she says, but she’s skeptical. 

Soobin curls into himself. They don't speak much after that. He heads to bed with a busy, heavy head, sinking into his pillow, suffocating himself in the plush of it with muffled screams. 

<><><>

Filming proceeds as it did, smooth without too much issues. They’re all experienced, so it’s expected. The chemistry on set is great. It’s lively and slip ups are teasingly brushed off. Well, that is excluding one person. He’s great, Soobin can acknowledge that, but he can’t help but tense up whenever Yeonjun enters the scene. It’s an odd twisting in his stomach, one oddly close to nerves, yet it’s not that. 

It’s like Soobin’s been punched in the chest, all the air knocked from his lungs, palms sweaty. Yet despite all that he can’t take his eyes off Yeonjun. And it’s hell because they’re alone now, out in their costumes, stuck in a cramped hallway. The cameras are rolling, their every move caught. 

The lighting is hot, hotter than it’s ever been before. Soobin blames it on the weather, summer reaching heights. The air is thick, hard to breathe in. 

Yeonjun is in his zone, immersed into his role. He’s good at this, Soobin realizes, at staying in character. He’s unwatered when Soobin’s fidgeting reaches even those in the crew. Soobin knows what the scene is supposed to be, knows what’s to come, but he and Yeonjun are alone on set and it makes his blood run cold. 

Yeonjun is all he can focus on. He’s up in his face, spitting the script at Soobin with staged anger. It makes Soobin’s knees weak. He’s not supposed to feel this way. He knows from the research he’d done, the ways to get into his lovesick characters, what it feels like to fall in love, on paper. He knows how to fall in love the way it's written out. 

His heart speeds up, nerves, like he can throw up. It overwhelming, getting to his head, but Yeonjun just looks so good, feels so warm this close to him, with their foreheads touching as the cameras roll. Soobin admits that even when it wasn’t only the two of them, he would still wander off to Yeonjun, eyes grazing him body, and hanging on his face. 

Soobin breathing speeds up, trembling. This can’t be. This can’t be. He shouldn’t be feeling this way, his body isn’t supposed to be reacting the way it is. 

Yeonjun grabs the front of his shirt, delivers his lines with nonchalant ease, Soobin hits a blank. 

“Line!” Soobin splutters in a weird, croaked sound. He pushes Yeonjun off, staggers backwards. 

In the distance he hears the director yell, “Cut!”, but he doesn’t process it.  All he can see is Yeonjun in his trousers and his slightly unbuttoned top, enough to see the sculpting of his chest. Yeonjun in his stage makeup, a little too thick in reality yet dazzling on screen, with his glossy, pouty lips and his sharp eyes. The mole under his eye, with his hair slicked back, showing off the angles of his face, quite soft for his fierce persona. 

Soobin stumbles off set, ignoring the groans of the staff. 

Yeonjun’s lips pull into a smirk. They call for a break. From the other side of the set Soobin watches Yeonjun light up a cig. The puffs of smoke cover him like a hazy dream. He looks unreal, like a figment of Soobin’s imagination. He’s the face on the tabloids, the one with the bold texts next to his face. A rumor, scrutiny, praise, the words are all linked to that one face. The face on the cover, the man in the flesh. 

They try filming again after a short break, but it’s to no avail. It’s the jittery feeling crawling over Soobin’s skin, the hot sparks whenever Yeonjun touches him. He runs a blank, nothing in his head except hot white panic, blazing, scalding, a forest fire eating up every tree in its path. 

He keeps stumbling, keeps tripping over his words.

“Let’s wrap it up for today,” is the final call. 

It’s way too early, with the sun setting and the evening scenes not done yet, but Soobin is too out of the world and into his head, thoughts eating him up, blaring like an alarm for shutdown. He doesn’t speak on the way to the hotel, ignoring his managers nags and complaints about his attitude. 

“You’ve reached the bratty stage in your career?” His manager grumbles some more words under his breath. 

Soobin crosses his arms and stares out the window. Whatever. He doesn’t have to reply to that now. 

He locks himself up in his hotel room, ordering his manager away. His image be damned, he needs to think for now. Soobin can't be more thankful for the time he’s gotten to himself, finally free to be alone with his thoughts. He won’t be able to sleep tonight, that’s for sure, but he can try. He can try to make sense of himself, try to figure out why Yeonjun made him lose his cool, heart running a thousand miles per hour on the freeway, gone before Soobin can catch it, lock it behind bars like a criminal. 

He groans, hands in his neck. He’s stripped down to his evening attire, orange checkers hanging off his frame. He drags himself over to the light switch. The dark helps with migraines he’s been told. However, once the lights are about to go off there is a knock on his door. His hands hover for a moment, then decides to ignore it. 

It could be his manager, or perhaps a fan crazy enough to come to these outskirts. If he says nothing they will leave.

But there’s another knock, this time followed by a soft call of his name. Soobin stiffens up and all the calm he’d hoped for is thrown out the window. It's Yeonjun’s voice, soft and lulling. Saccharine sweet like a ripe peach, oozing, juice running down his hands, sticking to his skin, his clothes. Soobin wipes his palms.  

If he says nothing, he surely will leave. But does he want that? Does he want Yeonjun’s figure to retreat into the dark of their hallway, head hung low with that sway in his steps, kicking at the floor? He tells himself excuses, makes up reasons to justify the pull of his heart, the itching of his hands. Soobin might be stuck in his head, but perhaps the issue lies on Yeonjun’s side. Isn't it a perfect chance to finally end the questions, get to the depths of things. A chance to get closer.

Soobin waits a beat, two, sucks in a breath and opens up.

“Took you long enough,” Yeonjun grins. He pushes himself off the wall and stalks in like he owns the place. 

It’s awkward. Everything about it makes Soobin’s stomach twist with nerves. It's too awkward. The brushing of their hands, the bumping of their shoulders.

Yeonjun circles the room a bunch, hands touching belongings that are Soobin’s and those that aren’t, making sure each surface is left with a hint of him, a fragment. 

“Nice room you got,” he says. 

He seats himself in the table, dirty boots resting on the chair, and lights up a cigarette. Thick gray swirls up, gets trapped in the walls, sucked up by the ceiling, clings to the sheets like a second skin. Yeonjun is everywhere now and there is no way of getting him out. 

Soobin coughs, though stays silent. He stares at Yeonjun, at the way his lips pout around the cig, at his slender fingers, softer than he’d thought they’d be with his rough, tough demeanor.

He stays silent because even stripped from his glam, Yeonjun is gorgeous.

“You got a strong push,” Yeonjun comments. 

Soobin’s jaw drops. “I—“

“What was that on set, Soobin?” Yeonjun interjects. He blows out a puff of smoke and leans forward, smirking.

Soobin is trapped in that same hazy dream again, dizzy. He swallows thickly and looks away, hoping — though deep down he wishes never to — to wake up. He can feel the burn in the side of his face. His thoughts run rampant , though not a single one is coherent

“It was an honest slip up,” is what he settles for at last. “I wasn’t in my best abilities today.”

Shuffling. The smoke smells stronger, stronger than it was. He was closing in. 

When he turns, Yeonjun is in front of him.

Soobin gasps, threatening to fall back, but Yeonjun’s hands are already curled in his shirt, holding him in spot.

“I know those stares,” Yeonjun murmurs. “I act in romance movies, after all. You don’t look at Eunji that way. Even when you’re acting. You’re not even looking at her.” The burning is back, scalding, scorching like a bonfire on a cold night, where the cold sweat gets chased away. “You’re looking at me.”

Soobin’s heart, speeding, running from him again. It breaks free from its cage, tears down the bars, bleeding red rose petals in its path. It’s burning red, red, red, rushing to his head, spinning around him in circles. The smoke is like a splash of watercolors, second hand, a bit of Yeonjun entering his body with each exhale and he gets high on it, floats on the sole thought of Yeonjun sharing a part of him. 

“It’s wrong,” Soobin says, weak. A tone that can be shattered with even a delicate tap

“No one will have to know.” Yeonjun looks up and Soobin’s breathing stocks, trapped in his throat.

His gaze is sharp, scratching Soobin’s heart, engraving it with feelings he’d never felt before, feelings he couldn’t admit to himself yet.

Despite his best efforts his gaze travels down to Yeonjun’s lips. His lips, so pink, so soft, like cherry blossoms in the heights of spring. Soobin never liked cherries. They were too sour, always sweeter before the bite, but now, in this hotel room, away from the eyes he wishes nothing more than to taste them, to find out if for once he’d found a good one in the bunch.

So he gives in. He forgets himself, the world. He leaves everything behind and caves.

Yeonjun doesn’t taste like anything he’d thought. He tastes like tobacco. The overwhelming flavor fills up all of his mouth. He tastes like tobacco, strong, but Soobin wants to take more than one drag, loses himself to the smoke on Yeonjun’s tongue.

Yeonjun is a monochrome film, dark, but Soobin sees in multicolors when he touches him. His gray cheeks tinge pink, his skin filling out into a sweet honey tone, feeling as smooth, as sticky in this hot, humid room. He pulls Yeonjun into him, hands on his hips, but it’s still too far. He travels up Yeonjun’s back, wraps his arms around him. Despite his built, Yeonjun feels so small. To Soobin, that is. Fragile. Soobin can engulf him whole, shield him with one embrace. 

Yeonjun doesn’t seem too fazed, like he’d been expecting it, for Soobin to crack, to falter and admit into him. He’s tugging at Soobin’s hair, humming softly. Soobin can feel him smiling.

And call him a masochists for craving what can only bring him hurt, but Soobin will never want anything but Yeonjun, will keep being pulled to him. He is what the moon is to Earth, twirling around Yeonjun like it’s his only source of being, sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker. Yeonjun becomes his center of gravity, becomes the blood running through his veins, the oxygen in his lungs. 

There is a hint of despair in their movements, the soft, yet telling whimpers, the whispers of their souls that there is no future. But there is a present, a present Soobin will keep in his heart as a gift, a present he will count as a blessing. There is no future, but Soobin gets to feel Yeonjun now and that is all he needs. 

They know — god, do they know — that after this project ends they can’t do this again. They’ll see each other as strangers with a shared history, a history buried with them, when their lips turn blue and their voices die. But it’s this moment that brings them to life.

After this movie they can’t do this again, but they can indulge for as long as they can, for as long as time allows it. 

<><><>

The news carries on, days after, about the plans on what to do in Yeonjun’s honor, about the monument in his name. There are people talking about him like they were close, some from the industry, some not at all. He was a kindhearted soul, they say, as if they weren’t the ones relentlessly dragging him down for being a wild-spirited whirlwind on feet. 

Soobin knows he’s just that, both of the statements. Soobin knows. Yeonjun is everything and nothing, he is what you think and the exact opposite. He’s tender when caring, a nightmare when he doesn’t. He has a mind made of glass, yet it is rare that it breaks, like those cups that never show a crack, even when you’ve dropped them more times than you can count. 

Choi Yeonjun is the universe and all the mysteries hidden within it. 

<><><>

Filming proceeds, still, except this time it’s filled with secret stares, touches that linger too long, before the distance sets in. The tension remains, but it’s now that Soobin truly understands what Eunji meant. There is tension, undeniably so. It hangs in the air, thick, dangerous, waiting to burst. 

Everyone can feel it, but no one comments. They’re both young men, they can get hotheaded. It’s only natural to feel threatened when fighting for the same spot at the top. That’s what they think, but only Yeonjun and Soobin know. Eunji may know what it feels like to have Yeonjun’s lips against hers, but Soobin knows what it’s like to be kissed, knows what Yeonjun feels like, knows the sounds he makes, softer than the ones he forces out on set. 

They’re biting too much at one another, too fake, but people watching will believe it, will believe this is what passion looks like. And Soobin lets them, because at the end of the day, when the eyes close and the cameras rest Yeonjun is with him, curled up into his side. 

It’s only Soobin who gets to see Yeonjun giggling, to see him a blushing mess when Soobin laughs at nothing, when he traces the lines of Soobin’s chest like he’s drawing a masterpiece, or perhaps it’s to remember by touch how Soobin feels, internalize the sped up rhythm of Soobin’s beating heart, unique beneath Yeonjun’s palm. A heartbeat designated solely for Yeonjun. 

They kiss, sloppy, lazy, taste every nook and cranny of each other’s mouths. Yeonjun still tastes like tobacco. He's nicotine in Soobin’s bloodstream. The days pass like blurs, but the nights with Yeonjun are infinite. Time moves differently when they are together, like Fate has taken her mercy on them and given them at least this, at least a prolonged fragment of being together, where it is only them. The world is asleep but they run high on adrenaline, more awake than coffee gets them, rushing like a river mouthing into the great big ocean, desperate to expand, desperate for more.

But in this life, what they have is what they can get. And in this life that is enough — or they say, hanging onto the thinning thread.   

Yeonjun is nothing but breathy moans, slack in Soobin’s hold as Soobin works his fingers into him, pressing kisses to his temple with soft promises that he’ll never forget him. That he’ll never forget them. 

There is so much more he wishes to say, so much more he can’t convey in words, so he does it in touch, trailing Yeonjun’s skin, sucking it purple and blue in places no one else will ever search. He carves his name into it, hidden from the world, but it fills up the entire universe to them. 

<><><>

Yeonjun’s face is plastered over the city. He’s in the headlines, on the posters. He’s smiling that smug smile, the one they got to know him for, eyes lazy and alluring, hair slicked back. There is a crowd following a carriage, one covered with white flowers, one falling with each bump in the road. They are crying, sobbing like it’s a loved one they’d lost, a lover, a sibling. They cry like they knew him. 

The crowd goes into the city, but Soobin leaves them behind. He drives over the hills, through the fields, away from city, away from Yeonjun’s face. He leaves, but he doesn’t leave him behind. Over the hills he rests, he waits, in secret, where only those who were given a chunk of his soul can reach. 

<><><>

Yeonjun walks a few rounds, arms crossed. He tries looking from a different angle, closer, further. He raises a brow. “It’s a well.” 

“It has a story,” Soobin argues.  

“It’s a well.” 

Soobin rolls his eyes. “You’re not one for sentiments, are you?” 

Yeonjun shrugs. “It just isn’t all that important to me. Giving meaning to objects that are meaningless. It’s a very human thing to do, hang onto the physical to remember what’s already gone.” 

The mindset alone makes Soobin want to scream out in frustration. How dull life must be, if one doesn’t want to appreciate the hidden beauties in it, let go of reality and allow imagination to entertain, to believe in the supernatural because it’s exciting, not because it’s logical. 

“Can’t humans have small joys like that?” Soobin asks, brows raised. 

“They can… but to me this is just a well.” 

“It’s a pretty well.” 

It’s petty, but the nonchalance in Yeonjun’s stance, the bored look in his eyes breaks Soobin on the inside just a little. 

“Sure,” Yeonjun flatly gives in. 

Soobin doesn’t argue, doesn’t have any arguments that boil down to facts instead of his feelings. He lets Yeonjun be, hopes that one day he’ll be able to look at a flower and smile at how meaningful it is to receive and give one, the hidden implications in a gesture combined with a small plant. 

But that is for the future. In this life, he joins Yeonjun’s side, follows his gaze to see nothing but trees. It’s getting dark, so there isn’t much to see, but the path feels shaky beneath Soobin’s feet and the grass grows over some of the tiles. The trees are blown out, petals coming down like snow and making way for fruits. 

“Do you ever realize that everyone knows you?” Soobin asks, mind absent. 

“‘Everyone’ is an overstatement, and all they know is the idea of me.” 

It’s another one of those replies, short, sharp. Yeonjun cuts down any means of conversation, doesn’t share, doesn’t show. It’s the shield he puts up, ready to fend off anyone who dares attack, even when the intentions aren’t ill. 

Soobin can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Aren’t you a sunshine?” 

“Sorry.” Yeonjun salutes with a wink. “It’s my image.” 

“Ass.” 

“I’m not a romantic, Soobin, you should know by now.” 

He’s real like this, in the low light, face more shadows than features, hair messed up and speaking his mind, his true mind, not the mindless comments he makes when interviewed. He’s real, comfortable in his slacks and tank, shivering slightly in an evening breeze oddly reminiscent of day, but stripped from its warmth. 

He steps closer to Soobin, borrows the warmth the world isn’t giving him right now. Soobin is more than willing to give it to him, would offer his beating heart if it would make Yeonjun live, but it’s too soon to say that. Soobin isn’t sure there will ever be a right time to say it. 

Soobin is a fatalist of sorts, thinks in extremes. There is only black and white, a rare gray in between. Fate is set in stone and there is no fighting it; the flow of life is inevitable and so there is no use fighting it. So Soobin never fights, he floats along the river that takes him through existence, panics when he doesn’t feel the bottom beneath his fingertips when he dips them in. His heart sinks, but he doesn’t fight it. 

He never fights, yet instead wonders why, wonders for reasons. There must be a reason Soobin is grounded the way he is, why sinning is his holy path to the only Heaven he’ll reach, the Heaven that is Yeonjun, between his thighs, underneath his body, the fuzzy feeling he brings, one that numbs the sirens ringing int Soobin’s head.

“Why do you enjoy it so?" Yeonjun breaks the silence. "Giving lifeless things meaning?” 

“Don’t you want to remember the dead?” Soobin asks.

Yeonjun sighs out. The air isn’t cold enough to form into smoke, but Soobin can see the thoughts, can see the fog it shapes out, big, engulfing. It eats them up, blinds them and makes it hard to move. Thoughts he can’t voice out, thoughts he’d rather keep it inside his head, rather than share it. A secret, something he would take to the grave. 

“When I go, I don’t want my body to be found,” Yeonjun says eventually. “When I go… I want to go back home.” 

“Home?” Soobin echoes, simply because he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t want to say anything, because thinking of Yeonjun dying hurt, bruises his chest and everything in it, crumples up his lungs and beats his heart to a pulp, leaving nothing but a battered blue with a wish to let it bleed out, to let the final beats of life leave it. 

“Home. Next to my grandparents.” Yeonjun doesn’t hesitate, not one second. It slips from his tongue like maple syrup from its container, forms a puddle beneath them and Soobin dissolves in it. 

He takes Yeonjun’s acid-coated lips, kisses them, licks away the ideas they’d brought to Fate’s attention. He soaks it up, lets it rest on his tongue, breathes them in and lets them rest in his lungs. Like the smoke Yeonjun inhales, he sucks in Yeonjun’s words. They make him dizzy, stars in his eyes. The world colors violent hues for a split second, but with his fingers tracing Yeonjun’s jaw Soobin doesn’t want to reach for the sky; he wants to remain glued to the ground, where he can exist in the same time as Yeonjun. 

<><><>

No one sees Choi Soobin for days. He doesn’t leave his house, doesn’t take his strolls to the grocery. No one sees Choi Soobin and they assume he isn’t home, probably away on a trip. Those are the ones he prefers to hear, even if they make no sense, with his car on the driveway and his lights on at night. But, there are worse assumptions made, so Soobin avoids the radio, avoids the papers. He stays in the box that is his room, curled up in his sheets and lets flow the tears the public should never see. 

The white noise is awful to his ears, but he’s consumed by it, clutching his sheets, hugging himself like Yeonjun had done that one year they’d been given, but the touch is empty, hollow as the rotting inside of a dying tree. He’s boxed in what Yeonjun had been, trapped between the walls of his essence. He can hear Yeonjun’s voice in his head, clings onto it like a child to their mother, afraid to let go, afraid to forget. 

Will you remember me? is what Yeonjun asked him, far into the fields, forehead pressed to Soobin’s, breath scalding like a summer breeze that only moves the heat, spreading it over Soobin’s entire being, stuttering like he was afraid to voice it out himself, like he already knew the answer. 

How could I ever forget you?

The sun was setting, coating them in a sepia gloss, reds and pink, rosy on the blossoms of their cheeks, on their touch, on Yeonjun's crimson lips, bruised and battered with how much Soobin had tried to salvage them. And though Soobin knew it was too much of a request, knew it was impossible, knew it was nothing but naive hope, he asked it, Will you see me again? 

Yeonjun’s eyes grew ever so slightly as he jolted. The look on his face already told enough, the dulled down sparkles, the dropped edges of his mouth. Soobin knew before he could hear it, so Yeonjun didn’t answer. Instead he held Soobin close, arms around his slender waist and cheek pressed into his shoulder. Soobin couldn’t remember how long they stayed that way, because every second with Yeonjun felt infinite, felt like the world was put on hold and it was only them, the Earth and his Moon. 

Blackbirds circle over Soobin's head like vultures, and they are right to decide him a rotting corpse, declare him nothing but a carcass of what once breathed, pulsed with fire in his veins, now drowned into a deep black oblivion. He can’t see the shore, can’t feel the bed beneath him. 

Soobin doesn’t float; he gives in and lets the current drag him down. He drowns in sorrow, painted navy blue with hidden grief.

<><><>

Sometimes it’s the worst situations which lead to the most tender outcomes. It’s the day when the storm settled to its fullest extent that filming gets canceled. At last, Soobin wants to breathe out. He loves this line of work, but a break is never something he takes for granted. He needs time away from things to be with himself to feel reassurance in life and so he thanks the heavens for coming down on them, blessing their howling winds and the groans echoing through the skies. 

The room is darkened with the gray sky, but Soobin doesn’t need light to see Yeonjun’s beauty; Yeonjun’s glow is enough to keep him secure during a day where the sun never shines, a day that feels like night. Yeonjun shines like he agreed to be the horizon’s light for that day, honey-toned skin sweet as Soobin kisses his forehead. 

“The rumors… most of them are true,” Yeonjun murmurs, close into Soobin’s side. “But what they say about me… those are lies. That isn’t true.” 

“I don’t care about the rumors, Yeonjun,” Soobin says. “When have the media ever told the truth? And they don’t know you the way I do.”

“How do you know me?” Yeonjun rolls his eyes. “Cliché, don’t you think? The sappy scripts have gotten to your head.” 

“I know the you behind the scenes.” Soobin traps Yeonjun between his arms, hovers above him. He gives him a gentle peck. “I know the you stripped off your stage makeup and behind the smirks. I know the you off your pedestal.” 

Yeonjun looks up at him, eyes sparkling like the stars that fill the night sky, big, round. They shine like pearls in an oyster, one that Soobin had cracked open with all his best efforts. Big, round, innocent. Despite his rough image, the dark leather and the smirks, Yeonjun was nothing short of timid, reserved and quiet when the cameras stopped rolling, when the spotlight shifted. 

The rain clatters against the windows, followed by the distant rumbling of thunder. Yeonjun remains unshaken, and Soobin is grounded by his stare. 

“How do you know me, Soobin?” Yeonjun repeats, softer this time. It’s muffled by the rhythmic downpour, getting louder with the turning of the wind. 

Soobin runs his fingers through Yeonjun’s hair, smiling softly to himself. “I know how your eyes flutter shut when my fingers twist in your hair. I know the soft hums that leave for lips when I do. You might even start purring, like a kitten.”

“Fair observation,” Yeonjun agrees. “What else?”

It’s an invitation. Yeonjun’s lips curl up into a smile, right side lifted up a tad bit higher than the left. Lopsided; it’s not the smirk the public knows, where his eyes are half lidded in a smug manner, like he’s challenging the world to figure him out. This is an invitation, where Yeonjun, delicate as he is, guides Soobin to what lies beneath him. 

He guides Soobin through his layers, allows him to see each one of them, discover them, remember them. He lets Soobin internalize it, lets him break off chunks to keep, lock them in his heart for forever. Yeonjun gives Soobin a part of himself, rare, fragile, and a piece of truth; the truth that Choi Yeonjun actually exists. 

“I know the moles on your legs.” Soobin seats himself between Yeonjun’s thighs. He runs his fingers over their bared skin, Yeonjun’s shorts having ridden up. Soobin slips his hands beneath them. 

Yeonjun tenses up in initial surprise, though is quickly brought back to ease. It’s not a touch he fears, a touch he’s unfamiliar with. It’s a touch he melts into, night after night. A touch he longs for in the moments they’re apart. 

Soobin is gentle with him, dimples set deep in his cheeks as he takes a moment to just see Yeonjun. He sees him, takes him in, feels him beneath his palms, the softness of his flesh, kneadable, mendable, easy to bruise. 

“I know your puffy eyes when you wake in the morning,” Soobin continues. “I know you can barely keep them open, lips poutier and your lashes fluttering. The world is incoherent to you for at least thirty minutes.” 

“You think I’m cutest in the morning,” Yeonjun says. “You told me.” 

“Because it’s the truth.” 

“What more, Soobin?” 

“I know you shiver when I kiss you behind your ear.” Soobin proceeds to do so, grinning as Yeonjun’s breaths come out shakier, how he gasps out softly. “And I know the pretty noises you let out when I trail kisses down your body.” 

And so he does, sloppy and wet. Soobin’s lips latch onto Yeonjun’s sharp jaw, softly as to not leave marks, to not leave proof of what they do. They don’t have to, because they know. They know the truth of their actions, the sincerity. Yeonjun knows how hot Soobin’s breath feels against his skin and Yeonjun knows how rough the forming stubbles on Yeonjun’s face scratch. 

Yeonjun doesn’t wear shirts to sleep, especially when it’s hot, like the summer air outside. It’s humid, sticking to their skin, with the hot rain pouring down on them, even if it’s outside. Soobin tastes every part of him, the curve of his shoulder, the flat of his chest, the crook of his neck. He licks over the veins running to his heart, sucks at the pulse, lets it feed him, lets it light him back to life. 

Yeonjun’s palm finds Soobin’s back, other hand gripping at the sheets. He lets out a soft whimper, so small Soobin would’ve missed it, had he not anticipated it.

There is too much fabric between them and so it gets torn off until there is nothing left that can physically separate them. Yeonjun is velvet. He’s smooth, kind to the skin, regal, stroked a certain way or it will be ruined. He’s of the finest fabric. Some may say it’s silk, but Yeonjun is velvet and Soobin would not wish him any other way. 

Soobin runs his fingers up the bottom of Yeonjun’s length, then does the same with a lick like he’s taking his sweet time tasting. Yeonjun twitches, shudders as he exhales. Soobin kneads into his thighs, holding them down against the mattress. He laps his tongue around the tip, glowing on the inside as Yeonjun’s muscles tense. 

Yeonjun has experienced it before. Someone as beautiful as Yeonjun could not be untouched, could not be a blank piece of canvas, but Soobin wishes to be the last, the one to put his autograph on the masterpiece that is Choi Yeonjun, paint him to his will. He’d love to see Yeonjun marked up, with the indents of Soobin’s teeth set deep into his neck, tender, painful purple. 

Soobin takes the tip between his lips, salt on his tastebuds. He decides not to leave Yeonjun in his whimpering misery. It’s sweet torture, and Soobin relishes it, soaks up Yeonjun soft sounds of pleasure. He takes him down deeper, slow as he does so, finding the way to make it fit, cautious, afraid he might choke. 

He’s never done this before, has no idea what in the world he’s doing, but it melts Yeonjun, liquid as he slips through Soobin’s touch. 

Yeonjun’s back bends into Soobin’s architecture, hips bucking. “H-hollow out your cheeks, love.” 

And Soobin follows, sucking at the shaft. He gags, looking up at Yeonjun, unsure of what to do next. 

“Just… wrap your hand around the rest,” Yeonjun murmurs out. 

Soobin bobs his head, groans, breathing deeply through his nose. He pulls at Yeonjun’s cock, with his lips, with his hands and Yeonjun lets out the most beautiful of sounds, eyes fluttering. His fingers tangle into Soobin’s hair, tug at it and Soobin keeps sucking, doesn’t want to hear anything but his name spilling from Yeonjun’s cherry sour lips, plump and pink even when he’s coming undone underneath the cloud cushioned sky, panting and whimpering, keeping it within the walls. 

The thunder crackles in the sky, three seconds after the flash. It’s a third of a mile away, dangerously close and Yeonjun falls apart, seams ripping and wracked sobs. He doesn’t stop crying, the salt seeping into his cheeks, cupping his face as he curls up. 

Soobin takes him into his lap, gifting him his warmth one last time, remembering what summer feels like within a person. He allows the passionate howling of the monsoon to overtake him, a late season fury where the rain falls down like bullets, but Soobin burns for Yeonjun like he’s a wick and Yeonjun holds a match to him, to his being and name. 

He presses kisses to Yeonjun’s forehead, to his shoulder, fluttering, fleeting, meant to be remembered, hoping the feel of his lips will find its way into Yeonjun’s memories, one that he will remember when he closes his eyes, and can think back to with a lulling ache of longing, the same one Soobin feels building up. 

Yeonjun cries until he falls asleep, hands undoing their grip on Soobin’s skin as he slumps with all his weight into Soobin. 

Soobin burns up and falls to the ground as ashes, burying himself like snow freezes over the grass in winter. 

<><><>

All good things come to an end. Soobin knows that. Once the daydream is shattered by the calls of reality, everything becomes dull. The golden hues of the sun are nothing more but a matted beige, the vignette of the images grows out into a broadened view where nothing is hidden. It’s murky, a lake that has been overgrown with algae, lost its source of sun. The water is still and the life within is giving their last puff before they finally cease to exist.  

The final cut is made, the applause and cheers erupt, but Soobin doesn’t share its sentiment, sounds thundering against his eardrums, a slap to the face, a punch to the chest, a sharp slash at his gut, twisting into it as if the initial pain wasn’t enough, as if he needed more than just that to realize that dreamers, too, wake up one day. 

He straightens his back, accepts Eunji’s hug and nods at Yeonjun, nods at him like there aren’t tears pressing at the back of his eyes, like his throat isn’t choking up, gag in his mouth to stop the sobs from slipping. He smiles instead, smiles despite the aching, dulling, numbing. Smiling is what he does best, what he is loved for. His dimples, his charm. 

Yeonjun diverts his gaze, starts walking off. His figure is shrinking, becoming nothing but a silhouette in the distance. Soobin doesn’t move. He never does. The words of praise, the celebration isn’t heard, because there is nothing Soobin feels good about. It sounds ungrateful, even to him, but he can’t help it. He resents the end, resents the fact that nothing lasts forever, that he truly believed this bliss, this short moment of living — truly living — wasn’t going to tear him to shreds. 

I love you, lies on his tongue, but Soobin never says it. I love you, a secret whisper the summer winds will carry along when they wrap Yeonjun up in the warmth Soobin used to give him, and Yeonjun will know. He already does. 

I love you, but Yeonjun is not a romantic, and Soobin will never fight Fate. 

<><><>

The road thins out, small enough to fit a single car. It rumbles and rattles Soobin’s vehicle, but he keeps going. Soobin doesn’t mind the way he gets shaken, violently swung left and right, up and down, he doesn’t mind. He lets it massage his aching muscles, lets it ease the fever running high. He’s boiling up, head throbbing and his eyes rimmed red, dry, because they’ve been an endless waterfall. 

The road stops, but Soobin climbs out of his car, slams the door shut with a force that shudders the earth beneath them and trudges through the high grass. He’s running on adrenaline alone by now, not sure where he is or who he is even. He’s lost that part of himself by now, lost it together with Yeonjun. 

<><><>

Soobin watches Yeonjun from the other side of the red carpet. He waves at the crowd wearing that same lazy grin Soobin had got to know him with. The moment is fleeting, but the brief seconds are stretched into eternity, time having mercy on them, allowing them the last seconds to feel, to be, to exist. 

Yeonjun eyes soften, the shell of the oyster cracks and Soobin is allowed a glimpse of what he’d once seen as a whole, experienced with all his senses, of someone now buried away with the cameras trailing their every step. 

It shatters him, his heart in shards. He wants to tear it out of his chest, shut his palms around it so it sticks into his skin, stings, bleeds, becomes droplets of crimson and the big white screen. But he keeps it in. He smiles, poses, says his final thoughts and thanks. 

As the movie premiers Soobin can’t help but look over at Yeonjun, four seats away from him, his eyes trained ahead. They shine, though not as bright as Soobin knew they could. They are glassy, reflecting what he sees in this translucent manner, spread thin, hanging from a thread. 

He rubs his lips when the kissing scene comes on, and their gazes cross. It’s a ghost of a smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s watered down wine with only the bitterness of alcohol, none of the sweetness. Soobin smiles back with a diluted beam of his own, but he can’t look long, because he keeps staring he will want and if he wants there is no turning back for him. 

He knows it’s already too late, but he can’t help it. He yearns with every fiber of his being, each patch of his skin overtaken by a sore burn only Yeonjun’s touch can heal. 

It was the last time he’d seen Yeonjun in person. 

<><><>

The ending credits roll and with that their story ends. But over the hills, where the buzz of the city hasn’t squeezed the air out of their lungs, there is a silent place where a man visits to whisper the words the world will never hear, lines a script could never convey, because they come from the heart, from a person who is real, a person who exists. 

And the ending credits roll, but the story lives on, because beyond the big screen lies the real world. And he continues to love Yeonjun like real people do.