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i. Before you go
Changmin knows his father means business when he receives an actual written invitation to a meeting at East Coast/West Coast’s most premier hotel in Seoul. Not the flagship hotel, the one he knew he was expected to manage when he returned home after his time in London, but the Hideaway.
The name is so literal he always wants to pull an ugh face when he sees it, but the boutique hotel is so exclusive there’s a ten-month waiting list to stay there. It’s his sisters’ brainchild—a discreet, ultra-luxurious home-better-than-home catering for the jet-set elite. Royalty, oligarchs, a certain breed of music and movie stars... Basically, it’s a hotel with bespoke service for anyone who wants to avoid media attention rather than court it.
According to his father, the Hideaway has enjoyed greater success than he’d anticipated. Changmin wasn’t surprised. His sisters were determined women. They were winners, just like him. And maybe now they’ve decided to add more of the winning Shim formula to their hotel by commissioning Changmin to design the bed linen or the curtains.
He hopes not. Prints really aren’t his thing. Yunho, on the other hand—Yunho just loves prints. A shame that most of them would be too garish for a place like the Hideaway. Maybe they could work together and create something elegant and classy. Yes, Changmin thinks as he makes his way across the city, that would do it. Yunho has always wanted them to work together, and although curtains and duvet covers aren’t exactly what either of them had envisaged for HoMin pour Homme, such a project will be a good test of their abilities to work as a team.
They’ve worked together before, of course, creating an outfit for one another on Stitched Up. Changmin can’t actually remember a whole lot about that creative process. His mind always gets stuck on the memory of Yunho seducing him, over and over. And maybe he seduced Yunho a few times, too. Looking back, it’s a wonder either of them made it into the final three at all.
Changmin can’t stop the foolish happy smile from spreading across his face. He only ever lets out a smile of this sappy silliness when he’s alone in the car, because otherwise Yunho would pounce on him and say something ridiculous like, “Changminnie, why are you smiling, did I make my posh boy happy just by existing?” and while it’s true that yes, Yunho does make him happy just by existing and being such a huge, warm, snuggly, aggravating, adorable, smart, idiotic part of his life, Changmin doesn’t like to admit it too often.
Especially not now they’re engaged. He refuses to be under the thumb for his affianced life, and when they get married he’s going to be the one wearing the trousers in the relationship. Perhaps literally, since Yunho is currently on a kick for shorts and three-quarter length trousers, which in Changmin’s opinion are not really trousers at all.
He drives down a ramp into an underground car park and comes to a halt outside the hotel entrance. A valet opens the door for him and takes his keys. Changmin steps through into the lobby and nods at the smiling receptionist.
“Your father is expecting you,” she says. “Go right up to the terrace garden.”
Changmin thanks her and heads for the lifts. The Hideaway has three apartments, all luxuriously appointed, and each one offers subtle play on an aspect of Korean culture. The apartments are all separate, so guests need not mingle with one another, but the terrace garden is a shared space. It’s constructed in such a way that, if certain distinguished visitors want to enjoy the view but aren’t feeling sociable, an elegant curved, interlocking wall can be raised to divide the garden and to ensure privacy.
Today the walls are down, and there’s a long table set beneath the elaborate trellised archways hung with vines and bougainvillea. A few fancy snacks are laid upon the table, alongside a bottle of champagne. Changmin’s father sits at the head of the table, his wife beside him. On either side of the table, Changmin’s two sisters are seated. There’s two other chairs. Everyone’s smiling at him in a soothing, indulgent kind of way.
Changmin feels his hackles rise. His father had worn the same expression when he’d come back home, a graduate of St Martin’s with an internship at Chanel beneath his belt and an impressive portfolio of work. His achievements hadn’t mattered. His father had sat him down and told him he’d be taking over management of the Seoul Plaza Majestic whilst studying at business school, and that he’d better show the same drive and determination he’d applied to his fashion design because he was lagging behind his sisters in experience.
That had been a hideous interview. Changmin had stood his ground and refused to go into the family business. The resulting argument led him to apply for Stitched Up, and now here he is—successful, happy, engaged to be married to the man he loves, with two insane dogs and a never-ending legal wrangle between Versace and Chanel for his design services.
And his father is smiling that smile. That I know better than you smile.
“Son!” His father gets to his feet in welcome, smile getting wider. “Glad you could make it. Do sit down.”
His youngest sister shoves out the seat closest to her and gives him a wink.
“Thank you.” Changmin sits, looking at his family. Then he looks at the empty chair. There’s a champagne flute placed at its setting. “Are we expecting someone else?”
His father’s brow wrinkles and he casts a glance at his watch. “As a matter of fact, yes, but I had word that he’s been delayed.”
“I see.” Changmin tries to relax, sitting back in his chair. His other sister grins, obviously enjoying his discomfiture. He wishes Yunho were here. Yunho has always been able to charm his family, especially his sisters and mother, and his father respects Yunho and considers him a sound businessman. But Yunho is in Gwangju for a few days, sorting out some drama at the warehouse and checking over some ‘really good’ stock that Donghae had ‘acquired’ from somewhere.
“Well, now.” His father sits back down again and reaches for his wife’s hand. His smile flickers towards uncertainty for a moment and then he recovers his poise. It’s a Shim trait to turn uncertainty into confidence, but the sight of it in his father makes Changmin uneasy.
“Your wedding,” his father says, and then stops.
The uneasy feeling starts a slow unravel towards panic. Changmin swallows and starts to fiddle with his platinum engagement ring. “What about it?”
His youngest sister rolls her eyes. “Dad! Get on with it or I’ll tell him.”
His father glowers. “That wouldn’t be proper. Just give me a minute to collect my thoughts.”
Changmin’s mother sighs and pats her husband’s hand. “Dongsik, you wrote out a speech a week ago. Don’t pretend to be tongue-tied now.”
“Speech?” Changmin echoes, startled and possibly also a little horrified. “You’ve been discussing my wedding? Without reference to me? Why would you do that? I know what I want my wedding to be like. I’m going to organise everything. You don’t need to concern yourselves. I’ll take care of the whole thing. I know what I’m doing.”
His family turn reassuring looks upon him and smile.
“Sure, big brother,” his youngest sister says. “You know how you and Yun want to get married in Spain? You did know about the residency criteria, didn’t you—the part where you actually have to have residency in Spain so you can get married there? You were totally aware of that, weren’t you?”
Changmin stares at her. “I—I... Yunho said he was going to take care of that. I just have to—to arrange the flowers and the guest list and the location and—and I’ve been learning a bit of Spanish but I’ve been busy, the puppies need me when Yunho isn’t around and he’s been even busier than me lately, and it’s probably because he’s been so busy that he forgot to tell me about the residency thing, and oh God how could he have forgotten something like that?”
His other sister giggles. “Are you throwing your fiancé under the bus?”
“No!” Changmin flails and then takes a deep breath to calm himself. “It’s fine. We were planning on a June wedding. That’s eight months away. We have plenty of time to sort out residency.”
His father leans forward. “And when does your contract with Chanel start?”
Changmin exhales. “The middle of February.”
“So...” his father is smiling again, looking encouraging, “wouldn’t it make sense to go to Spain sooner rather than later? It only takes two and a half hours to fly between Paris and Málaga, and there’s at least four flights a day—a reasonable commute, I think you’ll agree, and if you maintain a little apartment in Paris and go back to Málaga for the weekends, you’ll be able to maintain your relationship, too!”
“What?” Changmin grips the side of the table. His head is starting to spin. “Málaga? What are you talking about? I don’t even know where Málaga is!”
“It’s a city in Spain,” his youngest sister says, straight-faced but with repressed hilarity dancing in her eyes. “It’s on the Costa del Sol. Sun, sea, and I’m sure Yunho can provide the third part of that particular equation...”
“Don’t be crude, darling.” Changmin’s mother gives her daughter a mock-severe look then turns a loving smile on her son. “It’s like this. Your father has just acquired a property in Spain—in Málaga, to be precise—and we thought it would be helpful for your residency status if you and Yunho were to live there for the next eight months until the wedding.”
“A property.” Changmin looks at each member of his family, suspicion deepening. “You mean a hotel.”
His father nods. “The Hotel Mirador, a beautiful 1920s villa-style hotel built on the Gibralfaro, commanding views of the whole city!”
“You want me and Yun to live in a hotel.” Changmin sits back in his seat, folds his arms, and lets his chin jut out in annoyance. “There’s something else, isn’t there? Something you haven’t told me yet. Some kind of catch. You want me to invite an extra sixty people to the wedding and make them all stay at your new hotel. Or maybe you want all of the Stitched Up contestants to be there. Or—”
“I wouldn’t mind if you invited Siwon, he’s hot,” the elder of his sisters murmurs.
“Actually, he’s not hot at all,” Changmin says, bristling. “But you’re right. I should invite him.”
“There’s no catch,” his father says, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “But there is a proviso.”
Of course there is. Changmin goes still. “What is it?”
His father beams. “To ensure residency, you need to be employed within Spain.”
“I’ll be working for Chanel,” Changmin says, bewildered. “I’ll be employed by the French.”
“Fortunately,” his father continues, smile still fixed in place as if Changmin hadn’t interrupted, “only one person within the couple intending to marry needs to be employed within Spain, although both need to be resident. Therefore—”
“Wait,” Changmin says, frowning, “is this your way of making me work for you? Because I refused the Plaza Majestic, you’re trying to palm off your new Spanish hotel onto me instead? Father, we’ve already had this discussion! I know you think designing clothes is something I can do in my sleep, but it’s not that easy! The Chanel job is too important for me to dilute it with—with—”
“Changmin.” His father’s expression turns serious. “Son. I’m well aware of how difficult it is to be a fashion designer. I watched that ridiculous reality TV show you did. Both of them. I know I told you I didn’t, but I did. Your mother made me watch, and I have to say I quite enjoyed it. I’ve even watched some of the other seasons, but none of the other designers were as good as you.”
Changmin pushes his champagne flute towards his sister. “I really need a drink.”
She laughs.
“So no, I wasn’t going to make you manage the hotel, even though I still think you’d be good at it,” his father continues. “Instead I’m going to appoint you to a spurious nepotistic position that means all you need to do is keep an eye on the deputy manager.”
“Deputy manager,” Changmin repeats. “Who...?”
His father glances at his watch. “He should be arriving any minute now.”
Right on cue, the doors to the terrace open and Yunho comes rushing out, his overnight bag slung over his shoulder and three-day stubble darkening his jaw, and he’s wearing ripped jeans and a Gwangju Skank t-shirt under a bright orange puffa jacket. He shoves his sunglasses up onto his head, disordering his already dishevelled hair, and he beams around at the gathered Shim family.
“Hi, future in-laws! Changminnie, ooh, you look so edible...” Yunho bounces around the table and cuddles Changmin, gives him a swift kiss and rubs the plush of his stubble against Changmin’s face. At the same time he whispers, “Don’t kill me, baby. Your dad came to me with the idea and I thought it was a good one. We have to be resident in Spain to be able to get married there, and since I can design from anywhere in the world and Donghae is mostly capable of running things on his own, it seemed like a good opportunity for us to spend some time having fun in the sun.”
“I... You...” Changmin is speechless. He tries to pull himself together. It’s hard to be all tough and businesslike when your idiot fiancé is pressed against you and he smells so good, feels so warm, looks so sexy, and the touch of his skin is so welcome and wanted and and and...
“Wait.” Changmin tamps down on his wandering thoughts and fixes his father with a gimlet eye. “You’re appointing Yunho as the deputy manager of your new hotel?”
“Why not?” his father asks, popping the cork on the champagne bottle and filling all the glasses with practised ease. “It’s not as if anything could go wrong. He’ll be reporting to an experienced manager from one of our Jeju resorts. If he’s not performing to Shim standards, you’ll be his line manager, so it’ll be up to you to—to...”
“Discipline him,” Changmin’s sister says, tongue firmly in cheek.
Yunho splutters with laughter and raises his champagne flute. “I’ll drink to that.”
Summoning a cool, haughty look, Changmin touches his glass to Yunho’s. “You may regret that remark. I’m a hard taskmaster.”
“I know how demanding you are, baby.” Yunho smiles and leans closer, lips whispering over the shell of Changmin’s ear. “Chastise and discipline me all you want—but make sure you do it in Spanish.”
Changmin quivers. Suddenly this idea doesn’t seem so crackpot after all.
* * *
Every Sunday morning they have a Skype date. Sunday morning in Spain is late afternoon in Korea, and no matter what they’ve been doing the night before, whether it was a hotel function or a romantic meal out or simply a long, tender session of lovemaking, Yunho is up bright and early and dragging the laptop over to the bed.
“It won’t hurt to miss it just this once,” Changmin says, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Eight o’clock on a Sunday morning is too damn early for anything in his opinion. Not that Yunho pays any attention to his opinion in this particular matter.
“I’m not going to miss it.” Yunho gives him a look of devastated woe. “How can you be so mean? Our puppies will forget us if they don’t see Happy Daddy and Grumpy Daddy every week. It’s bad enough that we had to leave them behind when we came here. Donghae said that Lagerfeld was inconsolable for a whole month and cried every night, and Pucci practically wore out the rug at the front door pacing back and forth waiting for us to come home. How can you dismiss such faithful behaviour by suggesting that we skip our Skype date?”
Changmin huffs and runs a hand through his fringe, pushing it back. “Donghae also said that after a month they calmed down and now they’re completely happy with him and the rest of the Gwangju Skank mob. He even said that Pucci is so well behaved these days that Zhou Mi isn’t frightened of him anymore.”
“I’m sure Zhou Mi is just stringing Donghae along.” Yunho boots up the laptop and settles back against the pillows as he waits. “He was totally dating Siwon and now he’s all over Donghae.”
“He’s probably just using him to get more discounted Tag Heuer watches and dishwashers.” Changmin snuggles closer and clicks on the Skype icon.
“Or maybe he’s just using him for sex,” Yunho says darkly, skimming down their list of contacts and selecting Donghae’s number.
“What’s wrong with that?” Changmin turns onto his side and nuzzles at Yunho’s neck. “I’m still using you for sex. The fact that I got a marriage proposal out of it is the icing on the cake.”
“Mm.” Yunho quirks an eyebrow. “You do know I’m only marrying you because I need to be able to tap this,” he pats Changmin’s pyjama-clad ass, “whenever I want for the rest of my life?”
Changmin giggles and presses even closer. “Baby, that’s why I said yes.”
They kiss, smiling into each other’s mouths, and then the embrace turns hot and passionate. Changmin gasps, puts one arm around Yunho and shoves against him, cock instantly hard. The laptop slides sideways as Yunho turns and gathers Changmin closer.
“I love you, I love you,” Yunho whispers, brushing tiny kisses all over his face before claiming his mouth again.
Changmin can only make a muffled sound in reply as he slides his hand up into Yunho’s hair and sighs.
“Oh God.” Donghae’s annoyed tone jerks them apart and they stare at the laptop, which is lying at an odd angle on the bed.
Yunho sits up again and rights it, then curls an arm around Changmin’s shoulders and beams at the screen. “Hi, Donghae. Sorry about that.”
Donghae shakes his head in mock disgust. “Seriously, guys, if you want Skype visiting rights to your mutts, you have to show yourselves to be responsible parents. Making out in front of me is not winning you points. Just letting you know.”
Aware of the blush burning across his face, Changmin sinks towards the duvet.
Yunho pulls the laptop a little closer, his expression bright with anticipation. “Can we see them?”
“Sure.” Donghae looks off-camera and whistles. “Hey, mutts. Wanna see Horny Daddy and Embarrassed Daddy?”
“They’re not mutts,” Yunho corrects automatically, “they’re— Puppies!” His tone changes and he bounces where he sits, joy blazing from him as Pucci looms into the screen. The huge Leonberger barks with excitement, doggy drool spattering the laptop.
“Eww, gross,” Changmin says, then laughs when Donghae says the exact same thing a second later.
“And here’s Lagerfeld.” Donghae wipes the drool from the camera, making the picture smear a little, and then he picks up the pug and holds him to the screen.
“Feldie!” Yunho reaches out as if he can pet the dogs. “Feldie, are you being a good boy for Uncle Hae?”
“Yeah, he’s been pretty good this week, haven’t you, mate?” Donghae rolls the pug in his arms and tickles Lagerfeld’s tummy. The pug yips and squirms all the way around and then starts licking Donghae’s jaw, trying to give him an adoring kiss. “Dude, please—doggy breath,” Donghae exclaims, but he’s laughing and he’s not pushing Lagerfeld away.
Changmin chuckles at how cute it is, but when he glances over at Yunho, he sees not amusement but a look of hurt. It’s gone in an instant, and then Yunho is laughing along with Donghae and teasing Lagerfeld, and then Pucci’s fluffy tail smacks Donghae in the face and Yunho’s laughter becomes genuine, but even so, Changmin knows what he just saw.
After a few more minutes of the dogs shoving their noses towards the camera and Yunho baby-talking to them, Donghae whistles again and says, “Scram, mutts,” and the dogs chase away, barking and yapping. A moment later there’s a loud crash. Donghae winces.
“Is everything alright?” Changmin asks.
“Yeah. I didn’t like that lamp anyway.” Donghae grins. “A gift from Mimi. The guy has no taste in interior decoration but man, does he have legs and does he know how to use ‘em.”
“Changmin’s legs were the first things I noticed about him,” Yunho says.
“You said it was my eyes.” Changmin digs his elbow into Yunho’s ribs.
Yunho yelps. “Your legs and your eyes. And your mouth. And your grumpy expression. All at the same time. I didn’t stand a chance.”
“Better.” Changmin smiles and kisses his cheek, then waves to Donghae. “I’ll let you guys chat. See you at the same time next week.”
“Catch ya later.” Donghae salutes.
Changmin gets out of bed while Yunho asks after several of his Gwangju friends and enquires how the market stalls are doing. This part of the conversation generally takes up to anything between half an hour to an hour, so Changmin usually excuses himself from it, makes his ablutions and gets dressed, and then fetches the newspaper and breakfast. True, the newspaper is in Spanish, but it’s part of their nesting ritual from home. The Sunday newspaper and warm, fresh croissants with butter and jam, all to be consumed whilst lolling on the bed.
It’s the middle of January, and bright morning sunlight streams through the windows of their apartment. Changmin stands for a moment and gazes out at the panorama of the city. Though the apartment only has three rooms—a kitchen, a bathroom, and a huge open plan bedroom/office/dining room—the views are spectacular. From their bed they can see half of Málaga from the Moorish fortress-palace of the Alcazaba north towards the rolling hills. From the kitchen window they can look out over their private patio and pool area, surrounded by pine forest and with a view of the walls of Gibralfaro Castle.
The apartment is built on top of and behind the Hotel Mirador, occupying its own little terrace. The hotel itself is impressive even by East Coast/West Coast standards. An elegant villa-style building spread across a plateau, it’s both classy and discreet. Once a private residence, it’s since been extended in a manner wholly sympathetic to the original design and with an eye to the beauty of the national park around it.
Changmin strips off his pyjamas and steps into the shower cubicle. The apartment is the only truly modern addition to the hotel. Though updated and modernised, the guest rooms and public rooms retain their 1920s decor and furnishings. One of Yunho’s tasks when they first arrived here was to decide with Onew, the manager Changmin’s father had appointed fresh from one of the company’s Jeju resorts, whether or not the Mirador needed renovation or redecoration. The number of guests staying at the hotel had dwindled over the last few years, and Changmin’s father wanted to change that.
“I think we should emulate your sisters’ idea with the Hideaway,” Yunho had said. “This city has so much history. We should use it, but subtly. The Mirador shouldn’t be some tacky theme hotel. Phoenicians, Romans, Moors, Conquistadors... We have a lot to work with. We shouldn’t close the hotel while we renovate, either; we should keep sections of it open and maybe drop the prices, offer weekly deals. We want the clientele to come back even when the Mirador is completely refurbished and charging full whack.”
Onew had agreed. So did Changmin, and the board of directors and Changmin’s father, and they’d asked Yunho to project-manage the whole thing as well as to act as lead designer. That had thrown him, and he’d clung to Changmin, confidence crumbling, and said, “But I don’t know anything about interior design! I don’t know anything about hotels! Changminnie, please help me!”
And so Changmin had found himself doing what his father had planned for him all along—working for the family business. Strangely enough, it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.
Turning the dial, Changmin switches on the shower and luxuriates beneath the spray of hot water. He lets the cubicle steam up, smiling at the blurred ghost-lines of the Hangeul characters Yunho had written on the glass last night: Gwangju Skank loves Posh Boy. Deputy Manager Jung loves Designer Shim. And then, with hearts and flowers around it: Yunho & Changmin.
Good job they do the cleaning themselves. Onew had told them they could use the services of the hotel staff, like he did in maintaining his suite within the main body of the Mirador, but Yunho had insisted that he’d keep their apartment tidy himself.
“If I’m going to help run this hotel, I should know how to do even the most menial of tasks,” he’d said, and so for their first few weeks in Spain he’d worked alongside the chambermaids, the cooks, the waiters, the receptionists, the gardeners, and the porters. He’d gone to the market every weekday morning and learned how to haggle over the produce, and he’d gone down to the port to meet the fishermen who brought in the daily catch. He’d visited all the Mirador’s suppliers throughout the city and further afield, and he’d got to know Málaga and its people, dragging Changmin with him on voyages of discovery through narrow streets, into tapas bars and cafes, into museums and churches and shops, and on bus and train trips to Ronda and Cordoba and Granada and Seville.
Along the way he’d fallen in love with Andalusia. Changmin can see it in him, and he’s glad. He’d been so worried that Yunho would resent the job thrust upon him, but he’d underestimated Yunho’s gift of exuberance and his willingness to embrace anything new and exciting. Yunho’s comprehension of Spanish is improving by leaps and bounds, aided by a phrasebook, a dictionary, and one of the chambermaids, Rosa, who comes to sit with him after her shift is over and patiently teaches him not just her language but also about Spanish food and dance and music and history and literature.
In short, he’s an absolutely ideal deputy manager, and Changmin’s father is delighted. So is Onew, who struggles to understand even the most basic of conversations with his staff and keeps making mistakes, which Yunho then fixes. It should lead to tension, but it doesn’t, because Onew is genuinely nice and he does know how to run a hotel, just not a hotel in Spain.
Changmin turns off the shower and gets out, wraps a towel around his waist while he shaves, and then he wanders out of the bathroom.
The bed is empty. The laptop is back on the desk. Yunho is nowhere in sight.
Dressing quickly in a pair of jeans and a thin rust-coloured woollen sweater, Changmin opens the back door of their apartment and goes out barefoot onto the patio. The stone paving is cold beneath his feet, but he knows that the sun will warm the terrace through soon enough. It’s a perfect suntrap even in winter, protected from the wind by the pine forest, which spreads its cool, sharp scent over the patio, and by the walls of the castle high above them.
Yunho is standing at the edge of the terrace on the other side of the pool. He’s looking up at Gibralfaro. They both like sitting out on the sun loungers of an evening, watching the sky darken into night, waiting for the tinted floodlights to come on and illuminate the castle walls. While they lie cuddled together beneath a blanket, Yunho spins wild, fantastical stories about the people who once lived there.
Changmin loves listening to him, finds himself thinking of the stories for days and sometimes even weeks afterwards, and occasionally he asks for sequels. Yunho obliges, and sometimes the stories take a sensual, erotic turn, and Changmin likes those even more, especially when Yunho whispers those stories to him when they’re making love. Changmin imagines himself as tribute for a king, with Yunho dressed in gold and silks and sitting arrogant upon a throne, or he imagines himself as the commander of a battalion of soldiers trying to storm the castle, and Yunho is the feisty runaway slave who falls in love with him and reveals the secret weakness in the castle defences.
Yunho’s stories always have happy endings. Changmin looks at him now and sees sadness and confusion. Trying to ignore the feeling that he’s caused this somehow, Changmin pads over and asks, “Everything okay?”
Without looking around, Yunho nods. “Yes. The new advertising campaign for Posh Boy has been a success. It was a good idea of yours to approach that crappy boyband to model for us. There’s so many kids in that group we didn’t need to double them up for any of the garments. The clothes are flying off the shelves, Donghae says. The remainder of last season’s stock as well as this season’s, and—”
“Yun.” Changmin hugs him from behind and presses a kiss to his nape. “I know you miss the dogs. It’s okay.”
A deep sigh shudders out of him. “I miss them so much.” Yunho’s voice is tight, unhappy. “I’m sorry, baby. I’ve tried so hard not to let it get to me, but I just wish we could’ve brought them with us.”
Changmin rests his chin on Yunho’s shoulder. “We discussed this before we left. It would’ve been cruel to bring them all this way, to subject them to the turmoil and discomfort of long-haul travel and then making them endure the same thing when we go back. We both agreed it was best for the puppies to stay at home with someone they know and trust. Donghae is your best friend. He takes good care of them. I think he even enjoys having them around.”
“They’re forgetting us. It hasn’t even been three months and they’re forgetting us already.” Yunho’s shoulders quiver and he swallows a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob. “No, it’s not that. You saw the way Feldie was with Hae just now. He only ever cuddles like that with me. He won’t even do that with you, but...”
Changmin pulls Yunho around to face him. “Are you jealous?”
“No.” Yunho tips his head back, blinking furiously. He touches his fingertips to his eyes, wipes at his cheeks. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get all mopey on you.”
“I’m your fiancé,” Changmin says, taking Yunho’s hands and squeezing them. “You’re supposed to share everything with me. Including mopiness. Especially that.” He tilts his head, gives Yunho a questioning look. “So you’re really not jealous of Donghae stealing the love and affection of our puppies?”
Yunho laughs. “No. Really, I’m not. I’m happy that they’re having fun and that he’s so comfortable with them. It’s what I wanted when I asked Hae if he’d take them. It’s just...”
Changmin knows they’re getting to the root of it now. He moves closer, lets go of one of Yunho’s hands so he can touch his cheek. “What is it?”
“Oh.” Yunho closes his eyes and leans into Changmin’s caress. “It’s stupid.”
“I’ve never seen you this upset before.” Turning his hand, Changmin cradles Yunho’s face, heart clenched tight. “Tell me.”
Yunho sniffs. He takes a deep breath and looks into Changmin’s eyes. “I love it here. I absolutely love it. I love my job and I love the people and I love Málaga. I’m having so much fun and I’m still able to design for Gwangju Skank and Posh Boy, and Spoon has asked me to collaborate with him again because his festival wear collection was such a big hit, and the Estonian guy wants my input on a range of shoes, and... I have you and everything’s perfect, but...”
“But?” Changmin repeats, softly.
“It’s stupid,” Yunho says again. He disengages from Changmin and moves away, taking a few steps towards the swimming pool. “I miss the puppies because I’m afraid of being lonely.”
Before Changmin can find the words to respond, Yunho turns to face him. “In less than a month you’ll be going to Paris and starting work for Chanel. I’m excited for you, baby, I’m really, really excited. I know you want this. You’ve worked for it and you’ve suffered for it, and I’m so proud of you. You’re going to be amazing. You’re going to be a star. And I know Paris is only two and a half hours away by plane and I’m going to turn up uninvited like I did in Milan and you’re going to show me the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre and a thousand other things, and I know you’ll be coming back here as often as you can, but...”
His brave, determined expression crumples. “Changminnie, I’m going to miss you. It’s selfish and I’m sorry, but I missed you so much when you were in Italy and it was okay then because we were still finding our way together as a couple, it was okay because when you came home it was so much sweeter because of the separation, but this time—oh God, this time it’s going to be so much harder because pretty much for the last ten months I’ve had you all to myself, and I’m selfish, okay? I’m selfish, but I want you to do the things that are important to you, to us, and I’m just... I’m going to be lonely. That’s all.”
Changmin stares, flailing inwardly, stunned by this outpouring of emotion. “Yunho,” he says, and it comes out choked and broken. “Yunho,” he says again and goes to him, wraps his arms around him and holds on tight. “I’ll resign,” he promises, his heart torn in two. “I’ll find a way to do it even if Chanel sues me, and we’ll go home.”
“No. God, no.” Yunho lifts his head. He looks fierce and resolute. “This is what you want. It’s what I want for you. We’ve moved halfway around the world for this. It’s your dream.” He smiles, and this time it’s real and it’s beautiful even though it wobbles at the corners. “I’m happy, don’t you see? I’m happy. I’m content. I love my life. I’m just afraid of being lonely. It’s always been my biggest fear, and though I got sad while you were in Milan, I had the puppies to keep me company at night.”
Now Changmin feels just as wobbly. Unable to help himself, he blurts out, “I always knew you let them sleep on the bed when I wasn’t there.”
That makes Yunho laugh. “Sorry.” They lean together, foreheads touching, and Yunho smiles again. “Everything will be fine, baby. Rosa has already invited me to join her family for tapas evenings, and Pedro is going to teach me how to play flamenco guitar, and Onew might be a bit of an idiot but he’s a good guy really and he’s cool to hang out with, so I know I won’t really be lonely.”
“I’ll come home every weekend. I promise.” Changmin holds him tighter. “And if I can’t, you’re coming to Paris. I insist. I absolutely insist. Because it’s going to be just as hard for me to be away from you. And I’m going to run up a huge phone bill because even though you just design skanky urban clothes, I’m going to want your opinion on my fabulous couture outfits.”
Stepping back, Changmin cuffs at his cheeks, feeling raw and vulnerable. He looks up at the castle walls and feels a huge crushing swell of emotion. God, he’s going to cry, he’s one hundred percent going to start sobbing any moment now and he can’t deal with it. He’s a winner, not some kind of ridiculous emotional sap.
He’s desperate for a distraction, something, anything, and there it is. A bright flash of colour, a flock of birds flying between the trees, twittering and swooping, painting the morning with blue and green and yellow and pink.
He blinks hard, sniffs, then once he’s got himself under control, he points upwards. “If you think you’re going to be lonely, you should set yourself a project. You should tame those birds. Canaries or parakeets or whatever they are. People have them as pets and they’re quite loving. It’s not the same as the puppies, but...”
Yunho looks at the birds, blank for a moment, and then slowly his expression brightens and he smiles. “My mum always said I could charm the birds from the trees if I wanted. I think I’ll try it.”
*
“I’m going out, baby,” Yunho tells him. “I’ll be back for breakfast.”
“Are you going into town?” Changmin peeps bleary-eyed over the top of the duvet. “If you are, can you go into that bakery on Larios and buy some lemon tart?”
“I wasn’t going into town, but I will now.” Yunho kisses Changmin’s head and bounces off the bed.
“No,” Changmin says, not particularly loudly and muffling his words with a pillow, “don’t make a special journey just for me. Oh, if you insist...”
He falls asleep again, feeling spoiled and happy.
When Changmin wakes again, it’s almost nine o’clock. He finds the lemon tart on the kitchen bench along with two plates, their favourite mugs, and with a jug of fresh coffee keeping warm. Yawning and stretching, Changmin glances out of the window and sees Yunho standing stock-still at the edge of the patio, gazing towards the pine trees.
The terrace is cut from the rock, the cliff rising up and doubling back on itself in bumps and folds as it climbs up to Gibralfaro. Grasses, flowers and trailing plants grow where they can, and where the forest starts, the property is fenced in with black-painted wrought iron railings. Yunho’s attention is fixed on the railings, Changmin realises as he leans closer to the window. And then he sees why.
A yellow canary is perched there. As Changmin watches, the bird jigs back and forth, then darts down to the ground. It hops towards Yunho, then pecks at something—is that bird seed?—before flying back to the railings. It repeats this action a few more times, and then a green parakeet appears, swoops right down and takes the remaining seed, and the yellow canary chases it.
Yunho finally moves. He’s smiling.
He does the same thing in the afternoon, leaving a scatter of bird seed on the far side of the pool and then standing nearby, waiting for the parakeets and canaries and finches to come and feed. The yellow canary makes a reappearance, along with the green parakeet and a slightly smaller pink bird. Changmin stands at the back door and watches as the birds hop down and take the seed, and Yunho talks to them, very softly, talks to them in Korean and then in Spanish, and he crouches down and offers more seed.
He does it every day, twice a day. At first Changmin finds it entertaining, but Yunho can be out there communing with the birds for half an hour or more, and after that he’s either going straight to the office to oversee the refurbishment or he’s off doing some other hotel business, and after a week, Changmin starts to find it a little bit annoying.
“I was joking about taming the birds,” he says.
Yunho blinks. “I like them. They’re pretty. And they sing.”
“It’s more like a screech.” Changmin goes over and fixes Yunho’s tie. He’s wearing a Posh Boy suit and he looks gorgeous. Ordinarily Changmin would grab the tie and tow Yunho over to the bed for a quickie, but thanks to those damn birds, they don’t have time.
“They whistle,” Yunho says. “I’m trying to whistle to them, too, but I’m not very good at whistling. I think that’s why the puppies like Donghae so much, because he can whistle.”
“I can whistle.” Changmin finishes arranging the tie and puts his hands on Yunho’s chest. “It’s not hard to do. You just put your lips together and—”
Yunho kisses him just as Changmin tries to demonstrate.
“I have to run, baby.” Yunho breaks free with obvious reluctance. “Let’s have lunch together in town.”
“Sure.” Changmin walks him to the front door and waves him off. The world’s shortest commute, home to work in the amount of time it takes to walk down the steps into the hotel grounds. Changmin leans against the doorframe, the warmth of Yunho’s kiss still lingering. He watches Yunho stride along the path through the gardens, watches him greet Pedro, the head gardener, and then Changmin straightens up, staring, as a small flock of colourful birds comes swooping out of the date palms and—honest to God—follows Yunho as far as the arched colonnade leading to the main dining room.
Changmin doesn’t know if that’s impressive or creepy.
By the start of February, the flock of birds has swelled in numbers. When Changmin looks out of the kitchen window in the mornings, the trees are alive with green and blue and pink and yellow birds, and when Yunho goes out, smiling and making the noise he claims is a whistle, the avian audience erupts in a cacophony of trills and shrills. They launch themselves from the branches and circle the patio, practically darkening the sky, while Yunho scatters a generous amount of seed and breadcrumbs on the ground. But it’s only when he calls to them, puts his hand up into the air as a signal, that the birds descend.
Onew witnesses it one morning when he comes by with a fax from one of the hotel suppliers. Changmin leads him into the kitchen and they both watch in awe as dozens of birds fly and squabble and swarm across the patio at Yunho’s feet.
“Wow,” Onew says. “He’s like a Disney princess, but with genus Myiopsitta instead of bluebirds.”
“Disney bluebirds don’t crap all over the patio,” Changmin grumbles. “Do you know how hard it is to get guano off stone? Not to mention the smell. And they follow him, did you know that? Even when it’s not feeding time. They follow him like something out of a Hitchcock movie. I’m terrified that one day they’ll turn on him and peck him to death, or else they’ll carry him away and make him their king in a gigantic nest in the mountains, or—”
Onew snorts. “Is there the slightest possibility that you might be over-reacting?”
Changmin glares at him. “No.”
“A gigantic nest in the mountains,” Onew repeats.
“Okay.” Changmin sighs. “Maybe just a little.”
“A little nest?”
“I’m exaggerating a little.” Changmin presses his mouth into a line, trying not to laugh. “But the poop problem is real. And the birds really do follow him around.”
“Yeah, the staff have mentioned it.” Onew grins. “But if we spin it the right way, it could be a unique selling point and draw in visitors.”
“But will those visitors really want bird shit spattered over their windows or on their patios? I’m telling you, it’s hell to clean. Or at least I find it quite troubling to watch Yunho clean it up.”
Onew laughs so hard he has to hold onto the kitchen counter. “You really are your father’s son,” he says, wiping at his tears of mirth.
Once the comparison would have annoyed him, but now Changmin just smiles. “Yes,” he says, an idea taking shape. An idea worthy of his father’s modus operandi. “Yes, I am.”
He doesn’t say anything to Yunho about his plan. He wants it to be a surprise. He approaches Pedro and a few other staff members, asking for their assistance, and five days before Changmin is due to go to Paris, their search is successful.
Changmin puts his packing to one side and goes with Pedro into the mountains. They return with a cardboard box lined with a raggedy pink blanket, and Changmin sits in the back of the car with the box cradled on his knees and croons soothing nonsense to the precious contents all the way back to the hotel.
It takes some quick thinking to hustle the box past Yunho, who’s standing in the central courtyard with Onew and a contractor, discussing plans for a new Nasrid-style marble pool to replace the old fountain. When he sees Changmin, Yunho starts to come over, asking for his opinion on a selection of tiles. Changmin takes off his Ralph Lauren jacket and casually slings it on top of the box, which he then hands to Pedro, saying, “Could you just drop that off outside the apartment? Thank you so much.”
As Pedro hurries away, Changmin hears a small growl and his jacket is yanked into the box. He hopes Yunho didn’t notice.
The next fifteen minutes seem interminable. Changmin listens to the discussion between Yunho and the contractor, and Onew nods occasionally, pretending he understands what’s being said, and they look at the tiles and refer to the plans Yunho has drawn up, and all the while, Changmin worries that his surprise will have got out of the box and wandered off.
Finally the meeting comes to an end. They shake hands with the contractor and Onew starts to lead the man away. Before he goes, he raises his eyebrows at Changmin in silent question, and when Changmin gives a small nod, Onew’s grin is almost as sunshine-bright as one of Yunho’s smiles.
“Are you sure those tiles were the best choice?” Yunho asks, frowning at the pattern sheet still clutched in his hand. “I liked these, too. But perhaps the design is too modern and the ones we agreed on are best.”
“Don’t over-think it,” Changmin says, aware of the irony of that statement as he takes Yunho’s free hand. “Leave that for a moment. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Yunho smiles. “A surprise? Does it involve you and me getting naked somewhere we shouldn’t?”
“No.” Changmin ducks his head and blushes, thinking of the day last week when they’d hidden in the castle ruins after closing time. Once the staff had gone home and they had Gibralfaro all to themselves, they’d re-enacted one of Yunho’s stories. Changmin had pretended to be a nobleman’s son taken as hostage-tribute, and Yunho was the king who desired him. Feigning unwillingness, Changmin fled across the castle grounds and ran along the battlements, heart pounding and excitement thrilling every part of him as he tried to evade capture. But then Yunho caught him, dragged him into the watchtower on the north side of the castle, and hauled him up to the top floor where a rug had been spread out, and there, to their noisy, mutual satisfaction, he’d claimed his prize.
“It’s nothing like that,” Changmin says, tugging on Yunho’s hand. “Come and see.”
From out of the trees, the flock of parakeets comes swooping. Changmin flashes them a smug glance, knowing that their days of crapping all over the patio are numbered. He just hopes Yunho won’t be too sad about losing his status as the resident Disney princess.
They reach the hotel gardens. Pedro is sitting on the steps to their apartment, the box placed to one side. Changmin smiles with relief. He should have known that Pedro wouldn’t have abandoned the surprise and left it without supervision. He also should have known better than to throw his Ralph Lauren jacket over the box, because one of the sleeves is hanging over the side and it looks like it’s been comprehensively chewed.
Nevertheless, he thanks Pedro, who gives him a big grin and sidles off, and then, keeping one eye on the contents of the box—it’s squirming beneath his jacket and making soft little sounds—he turns to Yunho.
“This is for you,” he says, gesturing towards the box. “Actually it’s for both of us, but mainly it’s for you. So you won’t be lonely when I’m in Paris. So you’ll have someone to talk to when I’m not there. So you’ll have someone to hold at night. So you’ll have someone who’ll give you back all that crazy love and affection you share so easily, and for all the love she gives you, know it’s from me, too.”
Smiling, Yunho raises his eyebrows. “She?”
“Just look.” Changmin flaps his hands towards the box.
Yunho goes over to the steps and sits beside the box. Carefully he lifts off the chewed Ralph Lauren jacket. He stares down at the contents and then looks at Changmin, an expression of utter incredulous joy shining from his face. “A puppy,” he says. “You bought me a puppy!”
“Do you like her?” Changmin twists back and forth, suddenly shy and uncertain. “She’s three months old. She’s had all her shots and everything, and she’s microchipped and I’ve got the paperwork to get her a pet passport, so if you like her we can take her home with us at the end of the year.”
“Like her? I love her!” Yunho reaches into the box and gently picks up the spaniel pup. “A Springer spaniel. Look at her darling ears. And her tail. Oh Changminnie, she’s beautiful.”
“A Welsh Springer,” Changmin says. “Apparently they’re quite crazy. I thought she’d fit right into our little family.”
“God, I love you.” Cradling the puppy against his chest, Yunho gets up and kisses Changmin. “Thank you. Thank you so much. She’s perfect.”
“You have to think of a name for her.” Changmin slides an arm around Yunho and rests his head on his shoulder, smiling at the wriggling red and white puppy with her big, melting brown eyes.
“Marchesa,” Yunho says. “She’s going to be a proper lady amongst a household of men.”
“Hi, Marchesa.” Changmin strokes the puppy’s head and lets her lick his fingers. “Hey, girl. You’re allowed to sleep on the bed when I’m not here, okay?”
Yunho laughs and holds Marchesa up. She yaps excitedly, and there’s a flurry from the trees as the flock of parakeets takes flight. Noticing the movement, Marchesa wags her tail and yaps some more.
“Changmin!” Eyes dancing with amusement, Yunho cuddles Marchesa close again. “Did you buy me a puppy just to scare away the birds?”
Changmin gives what he hopes is a mysterious smile. “Maybe. Or maybe I was just being a loving, caring fiancé.”
Yunho laughs again and shakes his head. “Shim Changmin, you’re—you’re...”
“A winner,” Changmin says. He picks up the box and gestures up the steps to their front door. “Let’s get Marchesa settled in her new home.”
* * *
It’s been a hectic few weeks. Changmin has been working non-stop preparing for the special Chanel retrospective gala fashion show to be held at the Palace of Versailles. Historic couture will be displayed alongside contemporary designs, and Changmin is showing a mini-collection in the Hall of Mirrors.
Isabelle de la Tour is modelling his final look, an extravagant high-waisted, slightly corseted evening gown that cuts low across the breasts and has an open, flared collar glittering with gemstones arranged in constellations. There’s a long keyhole in the back to show a hint of flesh right down to the swell of the buttocks, and the skirt, which fits tight at the front, fans out behind in a series of asymmetrical descending sweeps. He’s made the gown in midnight blue silk charmeuse and black organza, and the jewels are diamonds and sapphires of the finest water.
Karl described it as sublime. Isabelle squealed when she saw it and hugged Changmin, then whispered, “I must have this gown. Put me first on the list, yes?”
The show will be the culmination not just of the three months he’s spent at Chanel, but of all the time he was forced to lie fallow—aside from taking part in All Stars Stitched Up—during the legal battle. Though he wasn’t allowed to sell any of his work back then, he’d kept on designing, kept on experimenting with fabric manipulation and textile combinations, and he’d played with colour and print. He’d turned out hundreds of designs, then pinned them all to his studio walls and looked for themes and repetitions. He asked Yunho, Milhye, Jiheun, Spoon, and even Donghae to critique him, and then he’d started again. He’d amended and improved and permitted himself to go a little wild, and now his designs have a sharper edge and a new maturity.
“You’ve arrived,” Karl said when he looked through Changmin’s portfolio. “Our newest star is starting to shine.”
But to reach this level of achievement and acclaim within such a short space of time has had a cost. Changmin hasn’t been home in almost four weeks.
Funny how he considers Málaga his home. It’s just a temporary residence. It’s just an apartment in a hotel. But it’s where Yunho lives, and so it’s home.
Yunho has visited Changmin in Paris on several occasions, but not during the past four weeks. The refurbishment of the Mirador is taking almost all of his time, and when he’s not working, he’s training Marchesa, and when he’s not doing that, he’s trying to have a sliver of a social life whilst making arrangements for their wedding and doing design work and sorting out long-distance problems with Gwangju market stalls.
Changmin is working just as hard, but his focus is concentrated in one place, not scattered across several projects. He knows Yunho thrives under pressure, but he also knows that Yunho needs a break. After a late-night Skype session during which Yunho is barely coherent and falls asleep halfway through telling Changmin about the antique chandeliers he’s found for the Mirador’s dining room, and when not even Marchesa snuffling and licking Yunho’s ear can rouse him, Changmin decides to take action.
He calls his father and demands that Yunho be given a day off.
“He has two days off a week, just like Onew,” his father says. “It’s just that Yunho prefers to work on his days off. He likes to keep busy.”
Changmin scowls down the phone. “Because you’re overloading him with projects!”
“Because he misses you,” his father says. “You’re both as bad as each other.” He pauses, then adds casually, “There’s a hotel I’m thinking of acquiring in Paris. Do you think...”
“No,” Changmin snaps.
“It would make sense,” his father continues, unruffled. “Once you’re married and the Mirador’s refurbishment is complete, I could appoint Yunho as deputy manager at the hotel in Paris and—”
“No more hotels!”
“But son, consider the advantages. You can get a proper apartment, one with plenty of room for your new puppy. You’ll both be in the same city. You’ll have more time together. Maybe you’ll be able to inspire one another like you did on that silly reality TV show. Yunho’s designs aren’t my kind of thing but your sisters like wearing that Gwangju Skunk stuff...”
“Skank,” Changmin says. “Gwangju Skank.”
“Skunk, skank, it’s all the same to me.” His father sounds cheerful. “I think it’ll be good for you both. Yunho is still doing design work whilst running the Mirador—”
Changmin pulls at a loose thread on his jacket. “Onew is running the Mirador.”
His father laughs. “Come on, son. You don’t really believe that, do you? We all know—Onew included—that Yunho runs that place. And he’s doing a superb job. He’s a natural at this business! He’s a real people person and he’s got the charisma and vision to get things done at every level. I couldn’t ask for a harder worker—or a better son-in-law. Your mother and sisters agree.” Another pause, and then his father says, “Eventually I’d like to offer him a position on the board.”
Changmin’s first reaction is visceral and instinctive. Drawing in a shaking breath, he says, “You think just because I don’t want to join the family business that he will?”
“No. That’s not it.” His father sighs. “Changmin, please. I blame myself for the distance between us. You’re proud. I’m proud. We have to be. We Shims are winners. But I can still admit when I’m wrong. I know I’ve been blinkered with you. I had ideas for your future, and in pushing you to accept those ideas, I also pushed you away. I didn’t listen to what you had to say, and I regret that. I was so set on building for the next generation that I neglected to pay attention to my own son.”
Startled into silence, Changmin clutches the phone and listens.
His father sighs again. “Your mother says it’s because we’re so similar, you and I. She says I’m an aggravating old coot. I’m not sure what that makes you, but she’s right. We’re two sides of the same coin, Min. And Yunho—well, he’s a lot like your mother, in attitude if not in dress sense.” He chuckles.
“Here’s the thing. I’m not offering Yunho another hotel job and a position on the board just to do you a favour. I’m not trying to manipulate you, either. I’m not doing this as bribery or a reward. I’m doing it because he’ll be your husband soon and because I want him to be part of our family through more than just a legal document written in Spanish. He’s said himself that he’s not close to his own parents, that they live somewhere far away—”
“South Africa,” Changmin interrupts, his thoughts whirling. “They run a safari lodge. And his sister is a marine biologist so she’s always travelling and they hardly ever see one another.”
Changmin’s father is silent for a moment, then he says, “A man like that needs stability. He buries himself in work because he’s looking for an anchor, but he won’t find it there. Yes, it’ll give him satisfaction to achieve all the tasks he’s set himself, but at heart he’ll still feel adrift. He’ll still feel lonely.” Tone softening, he continues, “Min, Yunho needs you. You’re his anchor. He needs a family. Let us help. Let us be his family. We love him, too.”
“Dad.” Changmin’s voice cracks. His eyes fill with tears and he brushes them away, tangled and embarrassed and feeling tiny in the face of his father’s kindness and understanding. “Dad, I’m sorry I’m not the son you wanted me to be.”
“You are,” his father says, rough and passionate. “Shim Changmin, don’t you ever think otherwise. I’m sorry I made you doubt yourself. I should’ve been more supportive. I should’ve listened to your mother when she told me how serious you were about designing. But I needed to be sure it was truly what you wanted.”
“I know that now.” Tipping back his head, Changmin sniffs, trying to regain his composure. He laughs, the sound short and wobbling. “I know you acted like an aggravating old coot just to push me to achieve success on my own.”
“I’m so proud of you.” His father sounds choked up. “For a long time of course I’d hoped you’d follow me into the hotel business, but I was wrong to try imposing my opinions on you. Your sisters, too—I expected them to study something giddy and then make good marriages to suitable young men, but because you stood up to me, so did they, and now they’re taking the business from strength to strength. In the end, what I wanted isn’t important. As long as you’re healthy and happy, all I need is for you to follow your dreams.”
Changmin clings to the phone, feeling emotionally wrecked. “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, son.” His father clears his throat. “Now then, about that hotel in Paris...”
A hiccup of laughter breaks free. “You’d have to ask Yunho.”
“Maybe you should ask him,” his father says, brisk and businesslike once more. “It’ll sound better coming from you. I’ll tell him to take a day off. No, I’ll tell him to take a long weekend. Go and see him—and have fun. That’s an order.”
*
He fits the key to the lock and opens the front door. “Hello?” he calls as he goes inside, dropping his briefcase to the floor and kicking off his shoes.
There’s no reply. The apartment is quiet. Marchesa’s doggy bed is empty except for its rucked-up blankets and cuddly squeaky toys. Yunho has left a pile of papers and pattern books open on his desk. The laptop is on, the screensaver showing a picture of one of the new Tap This adverts. All three images were shot in Gibralfaro, but unlike the other two—Changmin leaning on the battlements looking at the sunset over the city, Changmin rolling on the ground with Marchesa—this one is the most blatantly sensual.
It was taken the day Yunho had chased him all around the castle and shows Changmin in a tight white t-shirt and faded steel-blue jeans scuffed with brick dust. His hands and chest are pressed against the wall as he attempts to hide from his pursuer, but he betrays his desire in the way his ass is sticking out all round and ripe, his jeans clinging tight to accentuate every line and curve.
The camera caught him in the act of turning his head, the image blurring, his hair in his eyes, his lips parted on a gasp of excited laughter. Though he doesn’t quite have a hard-on, the tension of arousal is evident in his posture. Only someone without imagination would look at this picture and not see a man who desperately wanted to be caught by his fiancé and fucked into next week.
Changmin studies the image with a half smile of fond reminiscence. He wonders if he should be concerned by Yunho’s tendency towards taking candid photos during intimate moments, but since the results are always so flattering and also incredibly successful in selling expensive jeans, maybe he’s not that worried after all.
He peels off his socks and lobs them into the laundry basket in the bathroom, pausing for a moment to examine himself in the mirror. He looks pale and tired and he didn’t shave this morning, but his eyes are bright with anticipation and he’s wearing a gorgeous new silk-sheened Louis Vuitton suit that he knows Yunho will appreciate.
A muffled bark from outside draws his attention, and Changmin goes into the kitchen to peer out of the window. Marchesa is sprinting around the edge of the pool as fast as her paws will carry her, ears flying, tail wagging. Her coat is wet and she’s barking and jumping and turning in circles.
Smiling, Changmin opens the back door. Marchesa is at the far side of the patio now, yapping furiously at the jet of water Yunho aims at her from a long, snaking green hosepipe. He must’ve been watering the banked riot of geraniums planted in large terracotta pots by the railings, and then either he or Marchesa had decided this game would be more fun.
Yunho is teasing the spaniel, putting one hand in front of the jet of water so it sprays everywhere. He’s wearing a soft cream-coloured vest that fits snug over his chest and a pair of eye-searing Spoon-designed shorts. He’s had his hair cut, long and silky on top and shaved at the sides, and he’s tanned to a lovely warm gold.
Changmin grabs at the doorframe, overcome by an onslaught of love and need. God, four weeks without this man in his arms, in his bed. Changmin wonders how the hell he managed it.
Rosa is sitting on one of the sun loungers, clutching her belly with laughter, a Spanish dictionary and a paperback novel on the wrought iron table alongside the remains of a homemade cake, two empty glasses, and a pitcher of what could possibly be Pimm’s.
It’s a charming, lazy scene, exactly what Changmin had wanted when he’d asked his father to order Yunho to take a day off, and now Changmin longs to join in and be a part of it.
He steps forward.
Rosa notices Changmin first and stands up in greeting. “Señor Shim!”
Marchesa utters an excited yelp, leaps through the spray of water, and barrels around the side of the pool towards him, barking and barking.
“Changminnie!” Yunho is just as excited as the puppy. He turns around, letting his hand drop from the jet of water. He doesn’t actually turn off the hosepipe, though. Oh no. That would be the sensible thing to do, and Yunho’s sense has obviously vanished, because he turns around still holding the hosepipe and the water blasts across the patio in a wide sweep, rains across the pool, and sprays across Changmin’s midsection.
He’s soaked right through. His stunning new Louis Vuitton suit jacket hangs limp and dripping. His shirt is plastered to his abs. His tie is drenched at the bottom. His hands clench and unclench. They’re wet. So is his face, water trickling into his open, gasping-with-shock mouth and sliding down his chin.
He blinks. All the sweet, loving words he wanted to pour over his fiancé are forgotten. Instead he bellows, “Jung!”
Marchesa skids to a halt at Changmin’s feet. She looks up, wags her tail hesitantly, then gives herself a good shake. A much less powerful but equally wet spray of water flies up from her coat and drenches Changmin’s trouser leg.
Rosa has both hands clamped over her mouth. She looks horrified. She also looks like she wants to collapse into hysterical laughter.
“Jung’s puppy!” Changmin roars.
Marchesa jumps up at him, pink tongue lolling out and her backside wriggling as her little tail wags faster and faster.
“I’m sorry!” Yunho turns off the hosepipe and flings it to the ground. He’s trying not to laugh, the stupid bastard, but then as he starts to hurry towards Changmin, he trips over the serpentine coils of the abandoned hosepipe and falls headlong into the pool.
Marchesa goes into a paroxysm of barking. She leaves Changmin and dashes to the side of the pool, almost bouncing in distress as she tries to see what’s become of her idiot master.
Rosa has given up on trying to contain herself and is leaning against the wall, tears of mirth streaming down her face.
Changmin’s mouth twitches. He has to admit, it’s pretty funny.
It gets funnier when Yunho surfaces, flicking back his head. Demented with joy, Marchesa flings herself into the water. She dogpaddles around him while he runs both hands through his hair, and then they both splash-swim towards the shallow end. He scoops her up and sets her on the patio, and she shakes herself off before racing around the pool to jump at Changmin all over again.
Yunho stands there, the water up to his waist, and beams at Changmin. “Hey baby, how was your flight?”
“Fine.” Changmin pats Marchesa automatically. He’s somewhat distracted—okay, a lot distracted—by the way Yunho’s vest has turned almost completely transparent. It’s clinging to his body, the fabric a little wrinkled in places, the scoop neck pulled even lower, and God, it’s straining tight, so tight across his chest, and Yunho’s luscious copper-coloured nipples are beaded hard and poking against the cloth.
Changmin can barely think straight. He’s a bad, bad man for objectifying his fiancé, but he just can’t tear his gaze from Yunho’s sexy chest. He simply can’t look his beloved life partner in the face. Not when Yunho is wet and wet and... wet.
“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow!”
Vaguely aware that Yunho is talking, Changmin tries to pay attention. “Hm?”
“Me and Marchesa were going to meet you at the airport,” Yunho continues, swishing back and forth in the water. “This is such a fantastic surprise! How long can you stay?”
“Until Monday night,” Changmin says, still in a daze.
“Monday night? Oh, baby!” Yunho bounces on his feet. The effect is muted because of the pool, but the water splashes up and makes the vest even more see-through, and—oh God yes—Yunho’s chest jiggles.
Wet, bouncy Yunho. Changmin is about to go up in flames.
“Rosa,” he says, voice strangled, “would you take Marchesa for a walk, please?”
A knowing smile spreads across Rosa’s face. “Certainly, Señor Shim. I will take her for a very long walk.”
“Thank you. I’m sure she’ll enjoy it. And—” Changmin pulls out his wallet, extracts several euro notes, and shoves them in her direction, “please feel free to stop by your favourite cafe for an hour or so afterwards.”
Rosa takes the smallest denomination note. “Señor Shim, this is not Paris. Coffee here doesn’t cost one hundred and forty euro.” She gives him a cheeky grin. “We’ll see you later.”
“Have fun!” Yunho calls.
Changmin waits until Rosa and Marchesa have left the apartment, the front door closing with an obvious bang, and then he stalks towards the pool, hands lifting to his throat, unfastening his tie.
“Nice suit,” Yunho observes, bouncing backwards through the water.
“Brand new,” Changmin says, transfixed by Yunho’s chest in that wet vest. He shrugs out of the suit jacket and slings it onto the ground. “Louis Vuitton.”
“Maybe you should hang it up?” Yunho suggests, a wicked smile teasing at his mouth.
“Maybe later.” The tie is yanked off and joins the jacket on the patio. Changmin starts on his shirt, fingers flying over the buttons.
“I really am sorry I got you with the hosepipe,” Yunho says.
“I really am glad you fell in the pool.” Changing his mind, Changmin leaves his shirt on. He unfastens his belt and takes off his trousers, kicking them behind him before he takes another few steps and jumps into the water.
He goes under, curling into a ball as he sinks, and then he pushes up and surfaces right in front of Yunho, arms going around Yunho’s waist to lift them both up and out of the water for a moment before they splash back down.
“Changminnie,” Yunho gasps, and kisses him just as they go under again.
Changmin’s shirt billows out. Yunho touches him as they kiss, runs a caress from his waist up to his shoulder, and then pulls at the garment and strips it from him. When they surface for the second time, Yunho scrunches up the shirt and flings it out of the pool. It makes a wet splat as it lands on the stone.
“I’ve missed you so much,” Changmin says, rough and urgent as he propels Yunho back against the tiled side of the pool. “Missed your smile, your voice, your scent, your hair, your warmth, your everything. Oh baby, I missed you.”
“Me too,” Yunho whispers, winding his arms around Changmin’s neck and pulling him closer. “Every minute of every day.”
They kiss again, blindly seeking one another. It’s passionate and desperate, mouths opening as the embrace deepens. Yunho makes a soft noise and holds on tight, and Changmin breathes in, quivery and emotional, his throat working as he tries to stifle a sob of relief that he’s back home where he belongs.
Yunho slides his hands down Changmin’s back and cups his ass. He grinds his cock against Changmin’s erection and they both groan at the constriction of wet cloth keeping them apart. “More,” Yunho says against Changmin’s lips. “I want more.”
“I want you out of these horrible shorts.” Changmin reaches down and pulls at the garment. “I don’t care that Spoon is our friend, these things are hideous.”
“Ugly, ugly, ugly,” Yunho sing-songs. He wriggles out of the shorts and his underwear and lets them slop onto the side of the pool, then he gives another little bounce. “But do you like my vest? Five euro in a sale in the Larios Centre.”
“I love it.” Changmin pins Yunho’s arms against the tiles, curving his grip over Yunho’s biceps so his chest is thrust out. He stares down, gaze devouring the pillowy expanse of Yunho’s chest, mouth watering at the sight of the soft swell of flesh encased in tight, wet cotton.
“When the Mirador is fully open for business, I’m going to institute a wet t-shirt contest,” Changmin says. “Every Friday afternoon. And you’re going to take part.”
Yunho laughs. “Is that really the kind of entertainment East Coast/West Coast Hotels should be endorsing?”
“Did I say it would be a public contest for the guests?” Changmin gives him a superior look. “I did not. I just said every Friday afternoon. Right here. And I’m going to be the judge. Because I really need to know if you have anything else in the wardrobe that could compete with how incredibly cheap and slutty this looks.”
“I have an even cheaper vest,” Yunho admits, then moans helplessly as Changmin dips his head and sucks at one perky nipple through the wet cloth. “Same sale. Cost one ninety-five. The cotton is so thin you can see everything without it being wet.”
“Oh God.” Changmin scratches at Yunho’s chest. “You’re wearing that tonight. Please. Take me to dinner and wear a Posh Boy suit and that trampy, trashy, one ninety-five vest and drive me crazy.”
“With pleasure.” Yunho yanks Changmin’s head down. “Oh fuck, baby. Bite me. I want to feel your teeth. Bite me, suckle at me—”
Changmin groans and tongues at Yunho’s nipple, then sucks hard through the wet cloth. He pinches and bites, and Yunho rocks his hips and squirms up from the water until his elbows are on the side of the pool and he’s bent backwards. The position rubs his cock against Changmin’s abs, slippery and hot and teasing. In response, Changmin shoves his free hand down into his underwear and begins to jerk off.
“Don’t come in the pool.” Yunho’s voice is husky and breathless. “On the sun lounger. Hurry.”
They disentangle from one another and get out of the water in a rush, slapping wet footprints across the patio. Yunho sprawls over the towel spread across his sun lounger, naked except for the rucked-up, soaked, and completely transparent vest. His cock curves up, thick and swollen, and he holds out his arms for Changmin to come to him.
“I want you to fuck me,” Changmin says, wrestling his wet underwear down over his thighs and off onto the ground. He clambers onto the sun lounger and whimpers at the touch of skin on skin. “Please, Yun, I need you. I need it hard and fast.”
“Baby.” Yunho pulls him down for another kiss. “Oh baby, I love you.”
“Love you too,” Changmin gasps. He doesn’t want to stop. Doesn’t want to go inside and find a squeeze of lube to ease the way. They’re both wet, and he wants this. He wants the burn of Yunho’s huge dick stretching him so he doesn’t ever forget how much he craves their connection.
He crawls higher, sitting astride Yunho, glad that the sun lounger is so wide. He scuffles up the towel with his knees and fists his hands into the wet vest, pulling at it. His dick throbs, and he yanks at the vest a little more, gets a decent handful and strokes the sopping fabric over his erection.
“You gonna jerk off into my five euro vest?” Yunho asks.
“Yes.” Changmin tosses his head, blowing a puff of air at his bedraggled fringe. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Yunho’s smile rivals the sun. “None at all. Get on me and let me see you work it.”
Changmin moans. He’s not going to last long. “Here. Right here. Fuck me.” He angles himself, taking hold of Yunho’s cock and guiding the tip to his hole. “Oh yes. Yes. Love you love you love you—”
Yunho thrusts up, claiming him with one long, rough push. Changmin lets his head tip back, mouth opening on a gasp of appreciation. Yunho’s lovely thick cock fills him wonderfully, a perfect fit as he fucks into him, hard and deep and in control. This, this is what he’s been wanting for the last four weeks—this feeling of completion, of total and utter joy.
God, he really isn’t going to last. He grips his shaft, rubbing into the wet, stretchy cheap cotton of Yunho’s vest, letting the fabric bunch tighter. Pleasure swells through him as he jerks off, as he rides Yunho’s cock. He moves faster, plunges down, rises up, gasping and gasping. He scores at Yunho’s chest with his free hand, clawing the lushness of his pecs, twisting at a nipple until Yunho grits out, “Changmin, fuck, oh baby, oh God,” and Changmin laughs, light-headed and triumphant.
“Yes,” Changmin says, urging them both on, “yes yes yes,” and he splays his knees hard against the armrests of the sun lounger, grinds himself down onto Yunho’s dick. His hand works faster. “Oh,” he moans, orgasm building and tensing, his body arching, “Yun, please, please—”
Yunho jerks forward, one hand on Changmin’s churning hips, the other wrapping around his waist, and he pulls him close, fucks up into him hard, stroking in with furious, frantic desperation. Changmin wails, the sunlight swinging through the sky and exploding behind his closed eyelids, and it’s like he’s underwater again, it’s like he’s drowning, and his cries go on and on, a long scream of ecstasy.
Yunho slams into him one more time and unloads, a hot rush of seed filling him. Changmin quivers, too far gone to speak as he revels in the aftershocks. He sways forwards, braces himself on one hand, and looks down at Yunho, eyelashes fluttering and his breathing fractured.
“Hey sweetheart.” Chest heaving, fresh sweat glistening on his skin, Yunho smiles up at Changmin. “Welcome home.”
* * *
Finally, after months of preparation, the date of their wedding day draws near.
Changmin stares at the kitchen calendar, unable to believe it’s almost here. One more week. Seven more days and they’ll be married.
“Still want to do this?” Yunho asks, sliding his arms around Changmin and kissing the back of his neck.
Leaning against him, Changmin nods. “More than anything. It’s just...” He tails off, not knowing how to express what he feels.
“I know.” Yunho holds him tight, rocks him back and forth for a moment, then lets go and straightens up. “There’s just a few more things we need to sort out. First, I know we talked about this before, but every time we discussed it, we ended up distracted so... which of us is going to be the ‘bride’?”
Changmin draws in a breath. His heart is pattering and he hopes he doesn’t sound weak and foolish when he says, “Me. I’d like it if I... if you were the one waiting at the altar for me. I’d really like that. I want to walk up and see you there.”
Yunho smiles. “I’d always wait for you.”
“You have.” Changmin drops his gaze, a flash of guilt going through him. “You’ve been so patient. Waited for me all this time. Travelled halfway across the world for me and believed in me and you—you... God, it should be me waiting at the altar, not the other way around.”
“It’s not really an altar,” Yunho says, pulling Changmin closer. “It’s more like a bower. And the judge will be there to marry us no matter who arrives first. And since on a few occasions you’ve come second...”
Changmin laughs and thumps him playfully. “Idiot.”
“Honestly, baby.” Yunho cuddles him again. “Let me wait for you. Just don’t leave me standing there too long.”
“Never.” Changmin hides his face against Yunho’s neck, smiling.
“Secondly,” Yunho continues, trying to sound brisk, “we’re still getting last-minute RSVPs from people, so I’ve redone the seating arrangements for the reception. Come and have a look.”
Changmin follows him into the main room of the apartment. Marchesa is drowsing in her basket, and she thuds her tail as they go past and settle onto the floor nearby. There’s a pile of index cards with names written on them, and beside is a large sheet of paper with a scribbled approximation of the Mirador’s main dining room with high table mapped out at the head of fifty circular tables.
“There’s space for four hundred guests,” Yunho says. “We’ve heard back from three hundred and six so far. I’m sure I only invited forty-two people, so the rest must be yours.”
“My mother took over the guest list,” Changmin says. “Back when I was busy with the Chanel show at Versailles, she offered to take charge of it. I did tell you.”
“You probably did, but I was kind of busy finishing off the refurbishments here.” Yunho gives him an apologetic look. “So, we should probably ask your mum if we need to expect any more RSVPs. I invited some of our friends from Stitched Up, but we seem to have had replies from everyone. And I mean everyone. All the contestants from season five, all of the contestants from All Stars, plus the camera crew, the make-up artists, the hair stylists, our models, and the rest of the staff.”
Changmin scrubs at the back of his head. “Is Korean Air offering some kind of cheap deal or something?”
Yunho coughs a little. “Uh, I believe your father worked out a discount with them, yes. Plus I guess no one could resist the offer of very cheap room rates here for a week.”
“Cheap?” Changmin frowns. “How cheap?”
“One euro a night for all invited guests.” Yunho gives him a brilliant smile. “Come on, they are travelling all this way for our special day. The least we can do is make it a fun and affordable trip.”
Changmin groans. “And to think my father thought you were such a good businessman.”
“It was his idea.” Yunho flashes another grin and picks up a mechanical pencil. “The seating arrangements. Do you think—”
“You never told me what you’ll be wearing,” Changmin says. “I’ve asked before and you didn’t tell me. You know I’m wearing that gorgeous suit you gave me for my birthday in Rome, so I think it’s only fair that I know what you’re wearing.”
Yunho shuffles through the index cards. “Something special.”
That doesn’t reassure Changmin. He narrows his eyes. “Define ‘special’.”
“It’s not chiffon. Siwon didn’t make it, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Yunho checks a few more cards then refers to the seating plan. “I’m wondering if my sister would like to sit next to Lady HeeHee. I’m not even sure Lady HeeHee is a lady anymore. She might be Heechul again. Maybe I should put Siwon there.”
“You promised my sisters that Siwon would be at their table.” Changmin leans over to take a look at the plan. “Why haven’t you put Zhou Mi next to Donghae?”
“They split up last week. Again.” Yunho jabs the pencil at the paper. “I thought Hae might prefer to sit with Sungmin. Zhou Mi is with Jaejoong, Porpoise, and their three kids. I also put Kyuhyun on that table.”
Changmin grins. “That’s perfect.” He cuddles against Yunho for a moment, then says in a soft, wheedling tone, “So what are you wearing?”
“Gwangju Skank,” Yunho says.
Changmin lets go. “What?”
Yunho’s poker face dissolves into a laugh. “Okay, no. I’m wearing Posh Boy.”
“Jung! You are not wearing high street fashion to marry me!” Changmin stamps his foot, a difficult thing to do when he’s sitting on the floor.
Yunho grabs at him and wrestles him down onto the rug, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. “Not wearing Gwangju Skank, not wearing Posh Boy. It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises!” Changmin roars, legs and arms going everywhere. “Ugh, you stupid idiot, just tell me!”
“A suit.” Yunho lies still, pinning him. “Signor Sirkis made it.”
Changmin stares. “Signor Sirkis? Is it like the suit he made for me?”
“Wait and see.” A small, satisfied smile curves Yunho’s mouth. “All I’m going to say is that he made my suit right after he’d made your suit and redingote.”
“Wait.” Heart clenching tight, Changmin swallows the emotion that wants to burst out of him. “You’re saying...”
Yunho nods, his eyes dark and serious and full of love. “I told you, baby—I knew. I knew. So I asked Signor Sirkis to make me a suit for the day I married you.”
“Oh God.” Changmin hugs him, clinging tight. “You’re such a romantic sap.”
“You love it,” Yunho says in his ear.
“I love it,” Changmin agrees, and they roll over, crumpling the seating plan.
*
“The local guys loved your sisters,” Yunho says as he crawls into bed while Changmin stands over him, torn between amusement and anger. “Don’t worry, nothing happened. Not that I saw, anyway. They have lots of phone numbers, though. Phone numbers and pretty roses for pretty girls.”
“And this?” Changmin demands, seizing the single pink rose Yunho is clutching. “Who gave you this?”
Yunho goes cross-eyed smiling at him. “Bought it for my gorgeous husband-to-be. Love you, Ch’minnie. Now turn off the light, my eyes hurt.”
“That’s the sun, you idiot,” Changmin snaps, but he makes sure the curtains are closed before he carries the rose into the kitchen and finds a bud vase for it.
A few hours later, Changmin comes in from the patio where he’s been working and finds Yunho sitting on the rug surrounded by a pile of opened envelopes. Marchesa is draped across his bare feet, and Yunho is holding an RSVP card in his hand and staring at it with a look of disbelief.
“Changminnie,” he says, not tearing his gaze from the card. “Changminnie, this is from Karl Lagerfeld. Karl Lagerfeld is coming to our wedding.”
“That’s impossible!” Changmin sways against the doorframe, feeling dizzy. “I didn’t invite him. Not specifically. I told him we were getting married, I told him the date and everything and... I said, very casually I said he could come if he was free, but I didn’t expect him to agree because he’s so busy, and...”
Yunho waves the RSVP card. He’s still wearing that look of stunned disbelief. “He’s coming. And while most people are happy with a plus one, he’s bringing plus nine.”
“What?”
“He’s even given their names and dietary requirements.” Yunho refers to the card. “Kylie Minogue. Victoria Beckham. Kate Moss. Heidi Klum. Joanna Coles. Michael Kors. Nina Garcia. Isaac Mizrahi. Georgina Chapman.” He pauses. “Georgina Chapman is the founder of Marchesa, right?”
The spaniel pup wags her tail.
"Co-founder." Changmin slides down the doorframe. “Oh God. My wedding day has just turned into an industry event.”
“Isabelle de la Tour called. She’s bringing Jean-Michel Jarre as her date,” Yunho adds. “Oh, and Jeremy Scott can’t make it.”
“I didn’t invite him, either!” Changmin clutches his head. “This was supposed to be our special day. This was supposed to be about us.”
“It’s okay, they’re only coming to the reception,” Yunho says. “Your dad will be so pleased. The Mirador looks absolutely fantastic. It’s a wonderful promotional opportunity for the hotel.”
“It’s not a promotional opportunity! It’s my wedding!” Changmin wails.
Yunho drops the cards and nudges Marchesa to one side. He comes over to Changmin and wraps him up tight. “Deep breaths, baby. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Except it doesn’t feel like it’s going to be fine, even though everything is running smoothly with nothing for them to worry about for these last few days. All the hard work has been done, all the arrangements set in place long ago. More of their guests are arriving each day and are settling into the Mirador. Everyone is getting on and having a good time, but Changmin can’t relax.
He spends every day in a state of constant nervous tension, and whenever Yunho touches him, he jumps and skitters like a startled rabbit. Every morning he wakes exhausted with the threat of a headache, and though it’s only a few more days to the wedding, he wants it over with so he can bury himself in Yunho’s arms and find some release from all this pressure.
By Wednesday he’s coming apart at the seams. His parents both try to talk to him, but he can barely hold a thought in his head. Onew asks him a question and he has no idea what reply he makes. Changmin finds himself standing by the new Nasrid-style pool staring at the flock of colourful birds, wishing that they’d snatch him up and carry him away to their gigantic nest in the mountains.
Instead of the parakeets, Yunho snatches him up instead.
“We’re going away for the day,” Yunho tells everyone, putting an arm around Changmin and steering him past their guests.
“But bro, it’s your rehearsal this afternoon,” Donghae says. “You can’t just take off.”
Yunho makes an irritated gesture. “Milhye and Siwon can stand in for us. Or you and Zhou Mi.”
“I’m not marrying that prissy, high maintenance bitch,” Donghae snarls. “I’m not even pretending to marry him!”
“Whatever.” Yunho rolls his eyes and guides Changmin through the hotel and into a waiting taxi.
They take the fast train to Cordoba. By the time they arrive, Changmin is feeling human again. He’s also feeling guilty for his vacant meltdown that morning, but since Yunho left their phones at the Mirador, he can’t ring anyone to apologise or to flail. Changmin frets about that, walking too fast, but then Yunho catches him and holds his hand, and slowly Changmin feels his worries begin to lift.
Cordoba basks in the sun, the narrow winding streets of the old town filled with colour and scent and noise. Pink and red geraniums burst from blue earthenware pots fixed to whitewashed walls. Pop music from a shop entrance wars with the notes of a classical guitar played by an old man seated in a chair on a street corner. Iberian hams hang in the window of a deli above sliced cheeses and stuffed olives and heaps of spiced nuts. The smell of food cooking drifts from dozens of restaurants, and Yunho leads Changmin on, further and deeper into the heart of the city.
They walk around the Mezquita, stroll through the forest of columns with their red and white banded arches, and stand looking up at the glittering golden dome, holding hands in silence. Afterwards they have lunch at a small pizza place and then make their way across to the gardens of the Alcázar. For a while they wander around the pathways, content to watch the play of water from the fountains and to admire the towers red against the blue sky, and then Yunho says, “Come with me.”
Changmin would follow him anywhere. They go back into the city, passing through the Almodovar Gate into the Juderia. Yunho walks with purpose, checking the names of streets and passageways, and then he produces a heavy iron key from his pocket and opens a large, brass-studded wooden door set into an old building made of worn, creamy-gold masonry.
It’s dark and cool in the entrance, and Changmin, sun-blind for a moment, has to blink before his eyes adjust. Yunho reaches out and pushes at another door ahead of them. It opens to reveal a courtyard, small and perfect, filled with greenery and sunlight. A tiny fountain dribbles water into a tiny pool against the high wall of the adjoining house. Around the rest of courtyard are a series of marble colonnades, a tangle of vines spilling out from one side. A flight of shallow stone steps leads upstairs. Colourful Moorish tiles gleam from interior rooms along with the elegant curlicues of stucco, and Changmin glimpses silk cushions and tapestries and long, low, comfortable divans.
He turns to Yunho, charmed and delighted. “What is this?”
“A twelfth-century Mudéjar townhouse. I know you said you don’t like surprises, but... surprise.” The faintest hint of uncertainty passes through Yunho’s expression. “I got it for our honeymoon. If you’d like to go somewhere more exotic for the second week, you know I’ll go anywhere with you. But for the first week, I don’t want to share you with the rest of the world. I want us to stay right here and nest together. I want to hold you in my arms every day and I want us to enjoy our first week as a married couple without any distractions. Just you and me in this lovely old house, getting to know one another all over again.”
Changmin crushes into Yunho’s arms. “I want that, too,” he whispers, fierce and passionate. “I just want us to get married now, without all this fuss and all those people. I just want it to be you and me.”
“I know,” Yunho says, smiling.
They go into the courtyard and sit at the side of the pool. Changmin dips in his hand. The water is cool and clear, and there’s the scent of earthiness around them, the stones closest to the fountain flocked with green lichen.
“Changmin.” Yunho takes his hands. “You are the most precious, most perfect thing in my life. Marry me on Friday. Make me the happiest man on earth.”
“So silly, Jung.” Changmin blinks. He must have lichen dust in his eye. It’s probably a good idea for him to close his eyes before any more lichen dust can get in.
Yunho takes advantage of this to kiss him. Changmin presses closer, wraps his arms around Yunho, strokes a hand up into his hair.
“Show me the honeymoon suite,” Changmin whispers when they part. “I don’t think I can wait.”
*
“Weird,” Changmin says, polishing off a croissant and thinking how refined his ‘hen’ night with Milhye, Jiheun, Isabelle, Amber, and Siwon had been in comparison. “I thought he’d keep his surname.”
“No, no,” his younger sister says, totally straight-faced. “He wants to be a Shim.”
“That’s right,” his other sister agrees, but there’s a gleam in her eyes. “He wants to be a winner.”
Changmin flicks crumbs at them and laughs.
Time seems both to drag and to flash by. Changmin takes a shower, shaves, and dresses in the beautiful bespoke Sirkis suit. He looks at his reflection in the mirror and sees no worry, no tension—just excitement and happiness.
His sisters and Yunho’s sister come knocking on the door to his suite. They’re wearing his designs, dark green satin sheath dresses with a gold organza trim at the bodice, and they’re holding bouquets of sunflowers.
“The car is here,” his younger sister says. “Oh, Min. I’m so happy for you!”
The rest of the guests have already left for the Alcazaba. It’s a short drive from the Mirador down the hill and into the city, but it seems endless. Changmin leans past his sisters and peers up at the red walls of the fortress, heart racing and his pulse thumping at the knowledge that Yunho is in there waiting for him.
It’s all a blur when they pass beneath the first gate of the Alcazaba and walk up the cobbled incline, past high walls dotted with grasses and flowers, past Roman columns and worn marble carvings. The girls whisper excitedly, their high heels clattering on the stone, the sunflowers a bright flash of colour as they move.
Changmin remembers to breathe, puts one foot in front of the other, and drinks in the day, the beautiful, wonderful day with its vibrant late morning light reflecting off the sun-warmed masonry and glinting from the water trickling in channels from beneath the next gatehouse.
They emerge from the shadow of the gate and turn left, up another pathway, and then they arrive at a wide, sunny terrace with water channels and a fountain amidst shaped box hedges, and a bower of trellised vines swagged with garlands of roses and sunflowers.
Pedro sits on the wall overlooking the city and plays a haunting tune on his guitar. Rosa is holding Marchesa on a lead, and the puppy has a miniature sunflower tucked into her collar. Their guests turn to look at him, and there’s a collective sigh as he walks up the steps onto the terrace, his bridesmaids behind him, and everything in Changmin tightens with a rich thrill of anticipation.
He steps forward. He can’t stop smiling. He smiles at everyone, from Onew to Siwon to Madame Oh, and his parents are there smiling back at him, and his father is wiping his eyes. Yunho’s parents beam at him, and Changmin focuses his gaze on the smiling figure of the judge who’ll preside over the ceremony.
And then there’s Donghae, the best man, wearing a Posh Boy suit. He grins and nudges Yunho, making him turn around.
Yunho is wearing a velvet three-piece in the exact same shade as Changmin’s suit. It has a tailcoat, which shows off the width of Yunho’s shoulders and the high nip of his waist and emphasises the length of his thighs. It fits him perfectly, and Changmin falls in love all over again.
He increases his pace, not wanting to delay a moment longer.
Yunho reaches out, tears of joy in his eyes, a trembling smile on his lips. Changmin takes Yunho’s hand. He feels safe and warm as soon as they touch, happiness lighting him inside and out.
He squeezes Yunho’s fingers, smiles and smiles. They turn as one to face the judge, ready for the ceremony to begin.
They’re going to do this. They’re going to be married. No matter what lies ahead, they’ll have each other.
Together, they’ll make it work.