Chapter 1: into each life, some rain must fall.
Chapter Text
into each life,
some rain must fall.
Sieun's life is mundane.
He's twenty-seven, works a corporate nine to five doing business administration for a consulting firm—a job that he neither hates nor particularly likes. His days unfold in a predictable pattern: wake up, get ready for work, eat breakfast with his house partner, take the train to his workplace.
He always stands at the same spot in the train station. He gets onto the fourth carriage, taking his usual place in front of the opposite door—that way, it's convenient to get off near the stairs at his destination station. He listens to the same playlist of unintrusive instrumental music as he stares out of the window. He swipes his office ID card at the third turnstile at exactly 8:55am. He's at his desk by 8:59am.
He opens his laptop at 9:00am.
It's mundane. Predictable. Manageable.
The perfect amount of nothing. When the silence grates at him a little too loud, he numbs it out with a pill or two. It's manageable.
Today, he pries open his laptop lid, and types in his password. A brief flicker of dark on the screen as it loads in, reflecting his impassive face on smudgeless glass.
He does a perfunctory check on his work emails, marking and labeling them according to importance. There’s an email about the intern class reunion happening in the following week, on Friday. He hovers over the registration form, then marks it unread to decide later. He usually tries to avoid them, until and unless his boss suddenly remembers and tries to wrangle him into it.
It's as he's finishing up that he notices the singular notification in his personal inbox. He clicks on it.
Right there at the top sits one unread email from an unknown sender. He opens it up and reads through it. It’s a mis-sent email, with a follow up apology:
heyy, did you receive my reunion planner email last night? sorry, I sent it to you by mistake. I was supposed to cc the newly hired junior in my dept with the same first name.. anyway, pls ignore!
The sender is [email protected]—a personal email ID. Sieun can't be sure if he's from the same company or not. He barely ever remembers anyone's names.
He blinks, then elects to ignore it.
A light drizzle begins to fall outside the office, coating the windows in speckles of rain.
By lunchtime, he's idly munching on a suspiciously stale sweet bun at the pantry and staring at the email on his phone. It's gloomy and overcast, so the pantry tubelight is turned on. It beats down a stark white against the crown of his head, reflecting off the phone screen. The email stares back at him, silent and unaffected. Wordy.
He isn't quite sure why he has the tab open.
The ‘hey’ has an extra y.
He doesn’t know why he fixates on it. Perhaps it's that the tiny detail is a rare break in the monotony, in the mundanity of his life. He can't say it's terribly exciting—but it's new. Curious, and intriguing, in a way that nothing else has been lately. Like someone is finally sticking their head through the crack in the door and peeking into his decrepit, dull, empty room.
He sighs, marks it as unread and locks the screen.
On the train ride back home, it's as crowded as it always is. The air is stuffy, and the windows are fogged up with condensation from earlier rains. He stands squished between bodies in grey-blue-black suits, all carrying briefcases or backpacks, staring down hypnotized at the blue light emanating from their hands.
He similarly stares down at his own phone today, and decidedly becomes one with the dredging masses.
He's looking at that email that sits yet unanswered. The (1) next to his inbox icon grates at him. He considers moving it to junk.
Eventually, he sighs,
and hits reply:
No worries.
When Suho’s phone pings, he startles.
It had been a long day—meeting after meeting. Not to mention, the intern reunion that he's now in charge of planning. Then his boss had pulled him and a couple other coworkers out for dinner. He'd barely made it home in time to take a shower and make a quick dinner for Yerim.
Yerim tilts her head at him from her place on the couch. He makes eye-contact and briefly smiles, then places the knife down and wipes his hands against his kitchen apron. He wonders if it’s his boss, texting about the sales report he’d submitted earlier in the day.
When he peers into his phone, a brow quirks up in surprise.
That person he'd accidentally emailed the other night has deemed to reply.
And it's… well, simple. Then again, he isn't quite sure if he expected anything at all, given that it's a random stranger that he'd accidentally emailed.
Without much thought, he types back:
huh, I didn't really expect you to reply, but thank you. man of few words? or woman.
He shoves the phone back into his pocket and finishes cutting up the gimbap roll. “Babe,” He takes the plate over to the couch, depositing it on the table with a mild clatter. “I understand dieting, but really, doesn't gimbap get boring?”
Yerim, his girlfriend and live-in partner of three years, smiles in amusement. “Not if I have my resident chef spicing up the ingredients every night.”
“Well,” Suho pulls up the sides of his shorts and sits on the couch beside her, grabbing the remote, flicking the TV on, “I'm running out of ideas. I might have to branch out into other cuisines, at this rate.”
Yerim huffs out a laugh, pulling her long hair into a bun. Suho doesn't quite understand her recent fixation with dieting. These days, he finds that their ideas of meals are often at odds with one another, forcing him to either eat out or cook separately. Besides, he feels like she's gorgeous regardless, and has tried to communicate as such, whenever it comes up. Her looks, delicate and refined, are something that anyone would envy. He loves the soft curve of her lips, especially when she smiles. The gentle grace in her eyes. Her thin, clear voice. It was the first thing he’d noticed, back when they’d met as colleagues at work.
He feels a tug at the back of his neck. Yerim says, “You forgot to take the apron off,” as she reaches below to undo the loose knot on his lower back.
He laughs, then shivers. “Ah, you're right. Hey, you're giving me goosebumps,”
She playfully bumps her fingers against his spine, pulling the apron over his head. “Hm,” she folds the apron, placing it on the coffee table, “Suho-ya,”
He turns. The TV's shifting hues reflect on her face as she chews. Her shorts ride up on her thighs. Her nipples poke through in increments through her loose tee. It's been so long since they last… well. “Yeah?” he murmurs, distracted.
He feels like an asshole, every time this happens. It takes him unawares. He tries his best to control it.
“Seunghee and Junyoung are inviting us over for brunch this weekend. I didn't really wanna go, but I think we should show face. They'll start nagging, otherwise. Eomma is close with her mom, too. You know how word travels.”
“Sure,” he says, “I don't mind,”
“Great.”
She finishes up her gimbap, then leans in to press a kiss against his forehead as she folds onto her knees. Her mild citrus-scented body mist wafts over, soft and familiar. She’s been using the same one for years. “Thank you. It was delicious.”
“Good.” He presses a light kiss against her lips. She pulls away nearly immediately, pushing off the couch. He tries to pretend that he doesn’t notice.
Sieun stares at the reply in mild confusion.
He hadn’t anticipated for it. He doesn’t even quite know what to say.
He toes off his shoes at the door as it clicks shut behind him. He hears Junho’s voice distantly call out, “You’re back?”
He stares at his phone some more, and types, I’m a man. “I’m back.”
As he’s eating dinner, poking at the meat in his soup listlessly:
from: [email protected]
ah, cool. not that I was trying to hit on you or anything. I have a girlfriend. I mean, you could be sixty, or sixteen, not sure which is worse. sixteen, right?
His confusion slowly turns into mild annoyance. He could just leave the conversation be, he doesn’t have any obligation to engage in meaningless small talk with this stranger. He wonders when his life devolved to deriving entertainment from random faceless beings that live in his email inbox.
A finger snaps in front of his face, and it pulls him out of his stupor.
“Sieun-ssi,” Junho looks at him in concern, “what are you spacing out about?”
“Nothing,” he murmurs, locking the screen. Junho’s eyes flicker to it. He’s always been keenly attuned to Sieun’s idiosyncrasies, files them away somewhere, never meaningfully acts on them. As if quietly adjusting to Sieun, fitting himself around the space that he occupies. Not close enough to touch, or call it intimacy. There’s always a clinical distance.
Sieun is comfortable with the gap. It’s familiar.
Junho sighs, and doesn’t press any further. “Finish up dinner. You’ve barely eaten.”
“Yeah.”
They met as high school students. Back then, Sieun was sick with his repressed trauma, in ways that were destructive towards himself and others. Junho’s family was powerful, so he had influence at school. His father was a priest at the biggest church in their predominantly Christian neighbourhood.
For some reason, he’d taken a liking to Sieun. He was popular at school. Tall, good-looking, and studious. He’d saved Sieun from being the target of bullies a good number of times. Not physically, but from a distance. They pretended not to know each other at school, until they became dorm-mates during college. After Sieun had tried to…
Now, they share an apartment. Well-furnished, thanks to Junho's degree in architecture. He owns a studio and does well for himself. Sieun can't pretend to be well-versed in aesthetics. Junho seems proud of it, however.
To Sieun, Junho has always been both an inaccessible fantasy, and a comforting, stable presence.
They both know that what they felt, still feel towards each other isn’t exactly platonic. Not quite romantic, either. At least, not for Junho. But it’s enough.
Sieun barely gets through dinner.
Junho sighs with his usual disapproval, and scoops up his bowl. “I have an interview to conduct next Friday. It was supposed to be at office, but HR fucked up the scheduling. It’ll be here, at the studio.”
Sieun nods, practiced. “There’s an intern class reunion that day.”
Junho looks over his shoulder, rinsing the bowls with the water that’s gushing angrily out of the faucet. They still haven’t fixed the pressure on it. “Hm? I thought you avoided those like the plague.”
Sieun shrugs. “It’s convenient.”
Junho blinks at him, as if considering, then says, “Okay.”
Suho doesn’t receive a reply, so he brushes it off.
“Juntae-ssi,” he calls as he enters the sales department the next morning, and a head pokes out of the cornermost cubicle, “what’s the scene with catering?”
“All good. They’ve confirmed on the menu we sent them.” Juntae shoots him a grin, his glasses sitting crooked on his nose. He returns the sweet grin.
“Nice one.” He salutes, and Juntae’s head disappears again.
He loosens his tie as he dumps his bag onto his deskchair, then heads straight to the pantry. A bunch of his colleagues are tittering by the coffee machine at the back. As he enters, their heads turn towards him. “What are we talking about today, ladies?”
Youngyi moves to make space for him. He grabs a mug and shoves it under the dispenser, unceremoniously pressing his usual buttons as he listens in. “Nothing, just Eunha’s insane boyfriend.”
“Huh?” The coffee begins to spurt out, steam billowing as the machine purrs. “Eunha has a boyfriend?”
Simultaneous groans. “How many times do we have to tell you?” Yeonkyung sighs.
“Sorry.” He isn’t, really.
“It’s fine. You might as well forget about him.” Eunha mutters into her coffee, then takes a sip. He leans against the counter, curiosity peaked.
“Why?”
Youngyi shakes her head, then begins to count on her fingers. “He freaks out if she doesn’t text on time, he’s basically a sex-obsessed freak, his haircut sucks, and she caught him on incel forums last night.”
Suho cringes. “Ah. Yikes.”
“I think,” Eunha slams her mug down against the counter behind her, hand carding through her short hair, “I’m just going to give up on relationships.”
Youngyi pats her on her shoulder. “I get you. How do people manage to have long-term relationships these days?”
Suho grabs his steaming coffee, then turns to see them staring at him. “What?”
“You’re the only one who’s succeeded so far, you know.” says Youngyi.
Eunha sighs, wistful. “I wish I could fast-forward to the domesticity of a three-year old couple. The easy intimacy must be nice. Everything that comes before it takes so much effort.”
What intimacy? Suho nearly says—screams.
He tightens his grip on the handle of his mug, and takes a sip of his scathingly hot coffee instead, muttering, “Shitty weather today, huh?”
As he’s walking out of the pantry, his phone pings.
He fishes it out of his pocket once he settles into his desk.
from: [email protected]
I’m twenty-seven.
A sixteen-year-old would be worse.
Suho feels a small smile twitch onto his face.
from: [email protected]
how do I know you’re not secretly older, or younger??
from: [email protected]
?
from: [email protected]
I could be getting scammed by a Nigerian prince, for all I know.
p.s: I’m also 27.
Later that day, Suho rounds the long, circular partition on the fourth floor and distractedly calls out, “Yeon Sieun-ssi?”
He looks down at his phone, a sly grin overtaking his face as an email loads in.
from: [email protected]
It sounds like you want me to stop replying.
His fingers are poised to type out a response when a head pokes out from behind the center partition. Yeon Sieun gets up, what looks like the last hints of amusement fading from his face as he meets Suho by the counter.
For a second, Suho stares at him, nonplussed. He’s very pretty. Hair parted and sweeping over the sides of his forehead, eyes gaunt but in a delicate, almost fragile way. A lot prettier than he remembers, from all those years ago. They haven’t seen each other face to face much. Sieun always avoids those intern gatherings.
“Ah,” he clears his throat and shakes himself out of it when Sieun’s stare turns a tad impatient, “I came here to collect the new batch of business cards that I’d requested.”
Sieun tilts his head, then begins to walk towards the back. “One moment.”
He uses that moment to type out a quick reply.
please don’t. for some reason these emails are now the highlight of my mind-numbingly boring days.
Sieun returns, pushing the deck of cards over the counter with a mild affect.
“Have a nice day.” he says, monotonous. When he turns around and starts walking back to his desk listlessly, Suho blinks and tilts his head at him. Curious.
A beat too late, “You too.”
On his way back up, in the elevator:
from: [email protected]
Mine too.
Suho grins.
The front door pushes open, and a soft voice calls out, “I’m home!”
Suho grins. “Welcome back.”
Yerim toes off her shoes with urgency, then stumbles over to the couch, letting Suho wrap her in a hug. “Long day?” he asks. Her off-shoulder sweater feels soft and tactile as she folds in.
“Hm,” she murmurs, “an unusual amount of clients. They liked my newer designs, though.”
She works as a nail artist. He hums, tucking her hair behind her ears when she pulls away. The corners of her eyes tilt, then she grabs Suho’s hand. “Long nails.” she murmurs, then immediately digs into her bag for the clippers.
As she leans in and begins to clip his nails, he feels a slow heat come over him. Her layered hair curtains her face as she bites her lip in concentration, her delicate hand clutching at his fingers, her off-shoulder sweater slipping further down to reveal more skin.
When she finishes, and looks up, her eyes waver in surprise. She scoots back and clears her throat, stuffing her clippers back into her bag. “I’m hungry.”
“Yeah,” he rasps. “Let me… I’ll make something nice.”
She nods, faced away from him.
He sighs, and gets up.
“Yerim-ah,” he partly turns half-way to the kitchen. She looks up. Her gaze is vulnerable. He shakes his head. “You look cute today.”
He smiles, hesitant, warm.
She slowly returns it. “Thank you.”
from: [email protected]
if you could distinguish relationships into two categories, what would they be?
Sieun swipes over to read the email, then pauses. He looks over at Junho, shoveling misutgaru powder into a shaker. He always makes it for Sieun, without fail, whenever he really can’t stomach dinner. It’s the only drink Sieun likes. The only good memory he has from childhood, when his father would share it with him after play-time as a kid.
Leaning his elbows on the counter where he’s sat, he begins typing. The tapping sounds draw Junho’s attention. He glances over. He’s wearing his reading glasses today. It makes him look handsome in a refined, classical way. Secretly, in a way that he’ll never admit to anyone, Sieun likes it the most. “That penpal you mentioned?”
Sieun pauses at the end of the sentence, then looks up at him, the corner of his mouth twitching. Junho smiles back in amusement, pressing the lid down on the shaker and shaking it, muscled forearm flexing, sweater folded up to his elbows. “You sound old.”
“Hey,” Junho leans in, bumping Sieun’s cheek with the back of his thumb. It’s the most they’ve touched in a week. He’s not sure why he’s suddenly noticing it. “You teasing me? Why did you reply to that email, anyway?”
Sieun shrugs. “Does it bother you? I can stop.”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Junho’s grip on the shaker stutters.
Spurred by the reaction, Sieun presses, feeling a little more reckless than he usually is. “He said he has a girlfriend.”
Sieun sees him take an unsteady breath, then exhale, slow and rehearsed. “No. It’s up to you. Do whatever you want.”
Sieun feels the weight of every word pressing familiarly into his heated skin.
It’s always been like this, between them. Teetering the line of friendship, never quite crossing it, acting like this is normal.
As Junho pours the misutgaru into a glass and distantly mutters, “Why is the weather so gloomy all of a sudden?” Sieun stares down at his phone, and presses enter.
from: [email protected]
Platonic relationships, and romantic relationships.
As Suho waits for the elevator, he unlocks the phone to read the latest response, bowing distractedly to Yeon Sieun from HR or IT, one of the two, when he comes to stand next to him. He receives a languid half-bow in return, then they stand in comfortable silence.
The elevator doors ping open, and they file in, pressing down their respective floor buttons.
They get separated in the small crowd that gathers after them.
Suho, holding a coffee in one hand, swipes his thumb across his phone screen, replying,
but don’t some relationships have aspects of both? I feel like the categories are muddled
He presses enter.
Distantly, someone’s phone pings, and he hears rustling.
He looks at the numbers go up, stopping at four. A few people shuffle out. He stares at the back of Yeon Sieun’s neat head of hair as he walks out, eyes glued to his screen.
As the elevator continues its ascent, another ping.
from: [email protected]
How would you define them, then?
Suho pauses, then,
from: [email protected]
sexual relationships, and sexless relationships.
Sieun reads the response, and can’t help the snort that bubbles up, typing,
That’s an interesting view.
Suho gets off a call, and swipes up to reply,
why? am I wrong? sex does make the world go around. we wouldn’t be here otherwise. most complex living organisms on earth are doomed if they aren’t able to reproduce. well, I think so, anyway
The door to the washroom slams shut as he walks out, and Sieun nearly bumps into someone as he replies,
Isn’t it a little different for human beings? Our end goal isn’t always reproduction.
The coffee machine purrs and rumbles beside Suho as he leans against the counter and replies,
no, I understand it’s different. but eventually…
When he goes a while without getting a response, he hesitates, then follows up with,
that’s just my personal opinion, though. sorry if I offended you.
Suho toes his shoes off at home, mumbling an, ‘I’m back,’ to the empty living room.
He plops onto the sofa, and fishes his phone out of his back pocket.
from: [email protected]
It doesn’t make me uncomfortable. It’s just surprising coming from someone in a seemingly happy relationship.
Brunches with Seunghee and Junyoung are always a little dull. It’s not Suho’s typical crowd of people that he enjoys hanging out with—then again, he doesn’t have anyone else now, apart from his office crowd. Both Seunghee and Junyoung are both in long-term relationships, and their partners always tag along to the brunch outings. Naturally, all their discussions usually pertain to marriage, settling down, having kids and other domestic things.
It would excite him to be part of something like that, a year or two ago. Now, given the strained nature of his relationship with Yerim—however seemingly one-sided they pretend it is—it’s a drag.
“You know,” Junyoung leans across the table, “Minah and I are tying the knot soon.”
Suho’s brow shoots up. “What? You’ve proposed?”
He shakes his head in response. “Not yet, but we’ve talked about it.” Junyoung nudges his elbow against Suho’s, then makes eyes at Yerim. “Speaking of, when do you two plan on making it official, huh?”
Suho just laughs awkwardly in response, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Why,” Junyoung continues, teasing, “are you waiting for her to get pregnant?”
Yerim overhears, and tries to ease the tension by putting an arm over his shoulder, interjecting, “We want to go with the flow, and figure it out in our own time. Isn’t that right, Suho-ya?”
Suho feels his threads snap in the moment, as he scoffs. He shrugs her arm off his shoulder, rashly muttering, “Would be difficult to even get you pregnant, considering the circumstances right now. You know, given that you haven’t even had sex with me for over a year.”
“—ho-ya, Suho-ya?”
Suho snaps out of his daze, and finds the entire table staring at him in expectation. He clears his throat, shuddering. Had that been his imagination, just now?
“Yeah,” he manages, stiff smile lining his face.
Fucking hell, he thinks. What’s wrong with you, man?
from: [email protected]
sorry for the late reply. it's just that I've started to wonder what constitutes a happy relationship.
I've always seen food and sex as primal needs. like, on the maslow hierarchy, or whatever.
maybe I was naive to think any and every romantic relationship would have to tick that box by default.
Sieun, sitting at an Italian restaurant and staring as Junho requests to pack Sieun’s leftover portion of gourmet pasta, reads the message and replies,
It's not naive. Some people are picky eaters.
Suho,
are you? a picky eater?
Sieun slides into the passenger seat of Junho’s car, pretends not to notice his searching gaze as he types,
I don't crave food the way other people do. I eat enough to sustain myself, whenever I need to.
Suho stares blankly at the washer tumbling his clothes, unlocks his phone to ask,
so you don't derive pleasure from it?
Sieun pauses, standing in the middle of the hallway as Junho opens the refrigerator to place the leftovers inside. His thumbs hesitate as he bites down on his lower lip, then he taps,
I'm not sure how one would go about deriving pleasure from it.
Suho exhales, ingredients for his kimchi jjigae left half-chopped on the cutting board as he clutches his phone.
are we still talking about food?
A pause, then:
well, I see your point, anyway. there are people who eat for the sake of fulfilling its functional purpose, and those who eat for pleasure. and the same applies to sex. right?
Yes.
Suho gulps.
sex needs two people, though.
The reply comes a beat later:
I suppose it does.
When Suho goes to sleep the following night, he stares at the gap between two twin beds perched with a four-foot distance between them, enough space for a wide bedside table to fit in between. Yerim sleeps on the twin bed facing the window, the midnight haze diffusing soft onto her hair and shoulders. Her back is faced to him.
He sits on the bed, staring at her back for a long time, and mourns.
He wonders if he should blame himself for letting it get to this state.
He wonders if it’s a situation that warrants blame at all. It makes it feel all the more helpless in his heart.
He leans back against his pillow, and unlocks his phone. He pulls all the way down on his brightness slider, then begins typing.
from: [email protected]
this is TMI, but.
my girlfriend and I have been together for nearly four years, but for more than a year now, we haven't had sex. we used to, pretty regularly. but then she stopped showing interest. I still want to. she doesn't.
but she's never verbalized it with a 'no', or outright rejected me. instead, she indirectly hints at it, and I don't dare go any further. it feels worse, somehow.
you're probably thinking, 'just talk'. I feel like a coward for never bringing up the issue. I don't know how, though.
sorry for the rant.
When the reunion rolls around the next Friday, Sieun feels the silent, suffocating dread of having to stomach social interaction creep up in his gut. It roils dangerously, creates a pit of unease as he navigates through the semi-crowded venue, heading straight to the bar for a refill of his gin and tonic after the group cheers. He relays his order, then unlocks his phone to the latest email, reading over the message again, and sighs. He shoves it back into his pocket, heart restless.
As he waits, his eyes lazily scan over the crowd. He spots the popular guy from Sales, Ahn Suho, as he’d relearned his name during his toast. He’s sitting over on a couch, conversing with a large group of people. He grins charmingly, black blazer fitted perfectly across his broad shoulders as he leans back, finishing off his drink.
Sieun distantly wonders what it’s like to be that extroverted and confident. To be able to captivate an entire room, hold it in the palm of your hand, wrap it around your finger, all with a single glance. His voice had been commanding and sure, yet amicable and teasing, during the toast. It rang clear and deep. Everyone listened, enraptured. People still steal blatant glances at him from across the room. People like Sieun.
Sieun wonders if it’s something you’re just born with.
A soft noise breaks him out of his musings. When he blinks, Ahn Suho is no longer on the couch, but next to him at the bar, staring at him with light amusement in his eyes.
Sieun isn’t one to startle easily, but he comes damn near close.
Suho gestures with his eyes at the drink behind him on the bar counter. “Drink’s here.”
Sieun blinks over his shoulder, then slowly reaches for it.
When he looks back up at Suho, he’s looking at him with a soft smile. It tips Sieun’s heart off rhythm, a little bit.
“What did you order?” he asks.
Sieun looks down at his drink, taking a second to remember. “Gin and tonic.”
“You don’t look like the type to drink.”
Sieun’s brows furrow. “What does that mean?”
Suho purses his lips, then laughs. Even his laugh is assured, somehow. “Just, you look like the type to drink mineral water.” He gestures at his face. “Simple, and refreshing, all that.”
All that.
Sieun doesn’t pretend to follow.
“I’ll have the same,” Suho says, to the bartender. As he waits, he leans over. Sieun leans back in response, wary. “You have really long eyelashes, you know.”
Sieun blinks, his really long eyelashes fluttering. It makes Suho’s face do a thing—a ‘half-amused, on the edge of laughter, trying to repress it’ sort of thing. Sieun can’t stop staring. He looks back down at the drink in his hand, briefly wondering if it’s spiked.
The back of his ears feel hot.
The bartender hands Suho his drink, and he thanks him.
Sieun walks over to the appetizers.
Annoyingly, Suho follows.
Sieun idly hovers over a couple food options, then feels his stomach roil with nausea. He foregoes the food, opting for another sip of his drink instead. As Suho grabs a pineapple cherry cheese skewer, Sieun can’t help but notice his nails. They’re so clean and carefully clipped that they nearly look manicured. He starts, “Your nails are…”
Suho takes a bite out of the skewer, then says, “Ah, these? Yeah, my girlfriend works as a nail tech. She’s always keeping my nails clean.”
Sieun nods, stilted. He wishes the conversation could be over, but feels somehow magnetized towards Suho’s presence. He wonders if this is the power of an extrovert’s aura.
“That’s nice of her.” he says.
“I guess,” Suho mumbles, distracted. Before Sieun can linger on the ambiguous response, Suho’s interrupted by one of the girls from Sales tugging at his elbow. When he turns, Sieun takes his opportunity to escape.
Suho waves to the last of the people leaving by the front door, walking away with umbrellas opened over their heads as they greet him goodnight. The rain falls heavy onto the street, drenching the pavements a dark, reflective grey, giving the streetlights a fuzzy glow. Suho shakes open his own umbrella, stepping out from under the eaves onto the streetpath.
Just a couple steps down, he stops in his tracks.
He sees Yeon Sieun’s silhouette faced away from him, standing without cover under the heavy downpour. He’s drenched, head to toe, water seeping dark ombre into his thick coat.
Suho gulps, then hurries over with a start, giving him cover. “Hey, Yeon Sieun,”
Sieun turns towards him, and he sees him holding his own unopened umbrella.
Suho blinks, then Sieun blinks back at him, wet hair plastered to his forehead, water running down the side of his elegant nose and trailing onto his pillowed lips. “It’s okay,” he says, “I like the rain.”
His voice carries the same unaffected indolence as it always does. Tonight, as Suho studies his wide, unblinking eyes, he finds droplets of emotion underlining his blank expression, echoing out in his voice. They carry an odd scent of loneliness, mixed in with muddy petrichor.
Maybe Suho’s had one too many drinks.
“Oh,” he says belatedly, as Yeon Sieun opens out his own umbrella, “do you need a ride home? I’ll help you call—”
Sieun shakes his head. “I live right next to the train station.”
“Ah,” Suho says. “In that case.”
Sieun tilts his head at him in goodbye, and begins to walk away.
His receding footsteps echo in solitude.
As Sieun walks, he receives a call from Junho. When he answers, Junho asks, “How was it?”
Sieun hums. “So-so.”
He hears Junho’s laughter sound from the other hand, discordant and muffled through the phone line. For some reason, he remembers the sound of Ahn Suho’s laugh. He tries not to compare the two.
“No interesting stories?”
Sieun licks at the corner of his mouth, tasting salty rainwater mixed with sweaty skin. “Hm,” he murmurs, “some guy from Sales has manicured nails. Said his girlfriend's a nail tech.”
Junho lets out a huff. “Strange. Was he just trying to show off his girlfriend?”
“Maybe.”
Junho mutters, “Nonsense.” and he can nearly hear the roll of his eyes.
Tonight, it drains Sieun’s energy. He comes to a slow halt.
“Are you on your way back?”
Sieun hesitates, then, “It’s raining really hard. I’ll wait until it stops.”
“Okay.”
Sitting on a wet iron bench, the smell of rust permeating his senses, Sieun types,
Sorry for the late reply.
I understand where you're coming from.
In my case, I live with my high school best friend. He's a man, but I'm in love with him. I have been for years. No one knows that we live together, and he's not interested in pursuing anything romantic or sexual with me. But he wants to be with me forever.
I don't know much else, apart from him. I thought I was happy, but the ambiguity grows more tiring every passing day. I'm not sure I know what happiness feels like.
That's my story.
The next morning, Suho helps Yerim get ready for work as she flutters around the house, last bite of toast half-shoved into her mouth. “Have you got your tool bag?” he asks.
She laughs, shoving a shoe on, haphazard. “Tool bag? What kind of phrasing is that—there, it’s on the couch.”
He goes to pick it up and passes it to her.
She finishes her toast, and grins. “Thank you.”
She makes her way to the door, then pauses. “Forgot something else.” she says, turning around.
“What is it? I’ll help you get it,”
She holds out her arms for a hug. Suho blinks at her in confusion, perhaps for a second too long, because her expression changes the smallest bit. It’s just that—it’s a little alien. Unfamiliar.
He coughs, arranges his features, then leans in to give her a hug. She sighs into it. “Ah, now I’m recharged,”
He tries to give her a reassuring smile as she pulls away. “Have a good day.”
When she’s gone, he collapses onto the couch with a morose sigh. The energy drains right out of him as he lays there, limp. How long does he have to pretend that he isn’t absolutely miserable, and achingly lonely? His heart pangs in his chest. It wasn't always like this. The memories of the past are what make it all the worse, as they flood into his mind in quick succession.
For some reason, it feels like her walls are up so high that they’re difficult to breach, even the tiniest bit. There’s a part of him that doesn’t want to admit that sex is important to him, either. Something in his gut that coils with a hint of shame.
Suho rubs his hand against his temple, trying to assuage the growing headache.
Suddenly remembering, he unlocks his phone and finally presses on the unread email notification, desperate for a distraction.
As he reads, his eyes widen, then widen some more.
He reads through it again, and then once more, just to be sure.
All he can reply is,
you serious?
Sieun, sitting on his own couch, snorts at the response.
Yeah, I’m serious.
Suho scratches his head.
I didn’t mean to doubt you, just… that sounds pretty miserable
Sieun gazes at Junho’s back as he putters around the kitchen, and replies,
I suppose that makes both of us, living in abject misery.
Chapter 2: rain clouds draw close, heavy with unspoken intent.
Chapter Text
rain clouds draw close,
heavy with unspoken intent.
Suho sits up on his couch, shoving a pillow into his lap as he leans forward, and types,
from: [email protected]
your friend doesn’t sound like a very good person
He stares at the unsent message for a long while, watching as the cursor blinks.
He sighs, then presses backspace.
The clank of cutlery against porcelain makes Sieun antsy.
It rings across the elaborately decorated room, not quite so loud as to drive a regular person crazy, just resounding enough to grate at his nerves. He sits across from his mother at their usual fine-dining restaurant, and tries not to let his agitation show.
Suited waiters flit around carrying trays one-handed, perfectly choreographed from the click of their heel to the rigid way that they hold their spine. Pleated beige curtains line floor to ceiling windows, dull and muted.
His mother is backlit by a massive chandelier that hangs from a low ceiling. Her artificially whitened teeth gleam against the candlelight that glows between them, as she thanks the waiter who refills her glass of red wine—so red in the dim light that it could pass for fresh blood.
She takes a sip, then cuts into her steak. “How is work?”
She takes a bite. Sieun looks away. His own steak is left untouched in front of him.
His reply comes a beat later. “Good. Fine.”
She nods and wipes delicately at her mouth with her napkin, then attempts a smile at him. “The administration… stuff?”
He exhales. “Yes.”
She hated it, when he transferred departments. For a while after, their relationship had become as strained as it had been when he was a child. But he'd had enough of living the life that she had wanted for him. He wanted to fade into mundanity, so that she'd never have a son to boast about to her socialite friends and rich tuition students. And that’s exactly what he did.
When he transferred out of finance, it felt like he could finally breathe. After years of searching for attention that was never given to him, the change came as a quiet, welcome relief.
Her smile tightens around its edges.
He distantly realizes that his mother’s smile feels less like a smile and more like a functional mechanism, stripped bare of any social or emotional implication—a set of muscles pulled taut to expose teeth. It looks grotesque.
“Good, good,” she says, then asks, “and how is Junho? Do you still meet him often?”
She doesn't know that they live together. It's easy to hide it from her, anyway. She keeps enough distance and more.
He nods. “He's fine.”
She cuts into her steak again, and the knife scrapes against her plate. “I heard his studio is doing well.”
Sieun stares at her, unblinking. Every dinner, without fail: the implication that he doesn't make enough money. That he doesn't compare to the rest of his age group anymore. He's used to it now. It's exactly what he wanted, in fact. It still stings, on some baser level.
“Sure.”
He hopes that his bland reply is enough to dissuade her. Her smile fades, and she backs off with an awkward cough. She's learned to back off, since his first attempt.
He’s made peace with her neglect. However, there’s always been one thing that he's never been able to make peace with, and it’s that she’s always liked Junho. The fact of it lodges uncomfortably in his chest, like a betrayal. It makes Sieun feel guilty towards him. It's not his fault, Sieun had always reasoned, that Mom likes him. It doesn't have anything to do with him.
Tonight, however…
He finally begins to probe the unease, as he sits with the feeling after a long period of avoidance. The clank of silver against china grows sharper in his ears.
As the wave of noise crests, his mother says with a cold, disapproving frown, “You've barely eaten.”
The realization scalds his organs, corrosive and dreadful.
It reminds him of Junho.
It makes him want to hurl.
“Excuse me,” he rasps, chair screeching against the tiled floor. He immediately makes for the washroom.
Sieun has no appetite when he gets home, not even for misutgaru. He ignores Junho’s worried stare as he heads straight into his room for a hot shower.
He scrubs his skin until it’s an angry, blotchy red.
Junho finds him later, seated on the side of his bed and clutching at his phone. He walks up to his side and asks, “Are you alright?”
Sieun locks the screen. He’d been staring at the email thread, listless and indecisive.
When he looks up, Junho’s regarding him with a worried stare. “Dinner went badly?”
“It went as usual.” Sieun mumbles.
“Did you eat?”
“No.”
Junho sighs. “Sieun-ssi—”
“Why is it always formal with you?”
Sieun’s words make Junho freeze in place. Sieun continues, “If my mother finds out one day, what will you do?”
“What are you talking about?” Junho whispers.
Sieun stands up, voice low as he says, “That we live together.”
“Why are you bringing that up now?” Junho shifts, uncomfortable, gaze darting away. “We’ll figure it out if it gets to that. I’ll heat up food for you.”
Sieun’s stomach roils with nausea again.
“Don’t bother.”
He shoulders past Junho into the bathroom, muttering, “I’m just a parasite that happens to live in your home, anyway.”
Junho stares at his receding back in hapless silence.
“Oh? Sieun-ssi, what are you doing at work today? It’s the weekend.”
Suho walks into the recreational lobby, head tilting in greeting towards Yeon Sieun, who’s sitting on one of the benches in the center. He’s dressed more casually today, black turtleneck under a brown suede jacket, with black jeans and a pair of loafers. Suho admires the easy way that he carries the look, and chalks it up to his refined face.
He approaches the vending machine near the bench, punching the button for fizzy soda.
Sieun’s gaze finds him a second late, as if his brain needed the buffering time.
“Hello,” he greets, quietly. “Finance is upgrading their meeting room monitors. Came to supervise.”
“Ah,” Suho nods, distantly registering that Sieun's voice is pleasantly low. The soda can drops into the port. He reaches past the flap to pick it up. “Cool.”
“Why are you here?” Sieun asks, as Suho settles down next to him.
“I actually came to return the umbrellas we’d borrowed from the event venue the other day, only to find out one of my colleagues had already taken care of it.” Suho rubs the back of his head in embarrassment.
Sieun hums.
They sit in amicable silence as Suho reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. The email thread stares at him when the screen unlocks. He wonders what to say next, as he distractedly asks, “Is it over? The monitor stuff.”
“Yes.”
Suho pops open his fizzy soda. “Want some?”
Sieun shakes his head. “I’ll take my leave,” he says instead, moving to get up.
Suho barely has time to greet him back before Sieun's tipping and falling off balance.
He reacts before he knows it—hastily placing his drink and phone down on the bench, clutching at Sieun’s elbow as he tries to right himself.
“Whoa, you alright?” He clutches at Sieun’s other arm too, for good measure, standing up for support.
Sieun sways, then nods, eyes blank and unfocused.
“Sieun-ssi,” Suho says, then pushes him back down by his shoulders. Sieun sits with a plop, hand reaching up to rub at his eyes. “Sit down. I’m gonna get you some water.”
He hastens to get water from the vending machine, uncapping as he circles back to Sieun, holding it near his mouth. Sieun looks up at him, murmuring thanks as he grabs hold of it.
“Have you eaten anything today?”
Sieun’s head shake confirms his suspicions.
Suho clicks his tongue. “I'm actually heading to grab lunch at a restaurant nearby. Why don't you come with?”
Sieun opens his mouth, but Suho interjects, “Come on. My treat.”
He holds his breath for a moment.
When he's finally met with a weak nod, he thanks his lucky stars that Sieun is too dizzy to argue any further.
When they get to the restaurant, they find an empty corner table and make towards it. Suho shrugs out of his black coat, laying it over the back of his chair. He then proceeds to roll up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, all the while waving and grinning towards a man sitting by the till.
Sieun takes a seat on the other end. When he looks up, he's subconsciously drawn to the first two buttons of Suho's shirt left undone, exposing his defined collarbone and the cartilage of his neck. The sight of it is compelling: airy, unconfined. He tugs at his own turtleneck, feeling its sudden claustrophobia.
Suho pulls his phone and keys out of his back pocket, placing them on the table with a clatter that breaks Sieun out of his spell. “I love this place. Used to come here all the time with my girlfriend, but she's been dieting for a couple months now.”
As Suho finally sits down, Sieun lets his gaze sweep around. It's an old haunt, by the looks of it: faded, crumbling red-painted walls and old hanging picture frames. The chairs creak and squeak from overuse. It feels lived-in. Well-loved.
Suho makes conversation with the older male owner when he reaches the table, conveying their order with an easy, charming grin. When cutlery and glasses of water are placed on their table, Sieun takes a sip.
“You're in admin, then,” Suho says, bringing his attention back to Sieun as the grill is lit.
Sieun nods.
“How old are you?”
“...I'm twenty-seven.”
“Oh!” Suho's sudden enthusiasm startles him. “We're same-aged!” Then, his brows furrow. “Wait, then why am I so senior to you at work? We're part of the same intern class too.”
Sieun clears his throat. “I transferred departments. It delayed my promotion.”
Suho leans forward on his elbows. His dress shirt tightens around his upper arms. “Oh. From where?”
“Finance.”
“Finance… That's what you studied in university?”
Sieun shakes his head. “I have an honors degree in mathematics.”
“Ha?” Suho gapes.
Sieun blinks at him.
As their dishes are brought over by a restaurant staffer, Suho sits back in his creaking chair. She arranges their food on the table: meat, rice, side-dishes and condiments. “I mean, no offense to your colleagues, but you're clearly whip-smart.” He thanks her, then starts greasing the grill. “So why are you in such a low-level position, and in the admin department?”
Sieun shrugs. “No reason.”
He takes a languid sip of his water.
At Suho's disbelieving look, he flatly adds, “I scratch the itch by solving equations in my free time.” Or taking pills to numb it out.
Suho regards him for a long moment, then murmurs, “You're pretty weird, you know that?”
“Yeah.”
“Was I being too nosy just then?”
“I don’t mind.”
They settle into a comfortable silence.
Sieun puts his arms between his thighs and watches as Suho grills the meat. He's well-practiced and intuitive about it: hovering his hand over the grill to check on the heat, making sure that the meat is evenly cooked on both sides, periodically flipping the pieces over and pushing down on them with nimble movements. His forearms flex as he uses the tongs and scissors to cut them into smaller chunks, shirt sleeves tucked neatly up to his elbows.
Sieun has never derived any pleasure from watching people handle food before. Today, however, he slips into a comfortable haze as he watches Suho's assured, methodical movements. He becomes aware of his steady heartbeat, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the smoky charcoal smell of the sizzling grill as it wafts over. He finds that he doesn't mind it.
When the first batch is cooked, Suho deposits the grilled meat onto Sieun's plate, piece by piece. “Eat up.”
Sieun hesitates, before picking up his chopsticks.
“I don't eat much. You can have the rest.”
Suho's under-eye twitches. “Like hell I will. You almost fainted, back there.”
Sieun pokes at his meat. “I was just dehydrated.”
“Funny.” Suho notices his reluctance, then pulls out a perilla leaf with his chopsticks, holding it in the palm of his hand and shovelling rice onto it. He then gestures to Sieun’s plate with a nudge of his chin.
Sieun obeys, depositing a piece of meat onto the spread leaf. Then, Suho folds and squeezes the wrap together, and holds it up to Sieun’s mouth. “Here. Try this. It’ll definitely stir your appetite. Say ‘ah’,” he says.
Sieun stares at it, his mind going blank at the sudden familiarity as he murmurs, “Have you washed your hands?”
Suho scoffs. “Sieun-ssi, food is all about the hands. That’s what makes it taste better.” He nudges it closer to Sieun’s mouth. “Ah, my arm’s getting tired.”
Helplessly, Sieun opens his mouth and lets him shove it in.
He can feel Suho’s warm fingers against his lips, taste their distantly bitter tang on the tip of his tongue as he pushes it in. He opens his mouth wider, accommodating the width of the wrap.
He pulls the rest of it into his mouth as Suho’s hand falls away. They stare at each other. Suho's expression is open and expectant.
Sieun finally begins to chew, looking straight at Suho. He’s met with a gaze laden with something that Sieun can’t quite put his finger on. He gives into its pull, unable to look away.
With Suho’s keen eyes on him, little by little, he gradually comes to taste every little burst of flavor—from the fresh, veiny texture of the perilla leaf, to the oils of the meat rupturing out and mixing in with charred smokiness, and the softness of the glutinous rice as it melts in his mouth.
Sieun sinks into it, hands gripping the edges of the table as he goes slack in his chair. He chews, slow and steady, savoring every new release of flavor. They merge together, blending into a pleasant mush. Eventually, his breathing slows to a languid, unhurried pace.
As he keeps chewing, he lets his eager eyes unthinkingly roam over Suho—his veiny hands, his bare forearms, his clavicle, and his bobbing throat—now glistening with a light sheen of sweat. Fascinated, heady, as if a new world of sensation is opening up to him.
When he finally lands on his eyes again, Suho shoots him a brief, knowing smirk, hands busy cutting up the next batch of meat. The smoke shrouds them in a potent, fevered haze.
“Yeah?” he asks. It feels indulgent, warm.
Sieun nods, mouth watering as he swallows. He wets his dry lips. His heart beats in anticipation, sweat lining the edges of his forehead. He can't pull his eyes away from Suho—he becomes an anchor as the pleasure invades his senses.
He feels like a warm body.
It’s addictive.
Sieun eats until his stomach is full, and then eats some more, because Suho occasionally makes wraps that he can’t seem to refuse.
He’s unused to eating this much in one go, so his stomach starts to cramp.
As Sieun’s clutching at it in mild discomfort, Suho asks, “Wanna walk it off?”
He nods.
As they walk, shoes clicking against stony pavement, Suho observes with a sideways glance that Sieun has a certain vitality to him now, after the heavy meal. His heart seems to be pumping out blood with vigor. It floods into every corner of his being—his cheeks are flushed, his eyes are clear, and his mouth is plump and red.
A brief rush of satisfaction courses through Suho at the sight. It’s a stark contrast to the gaunt lifelessness that faced him in the office lobby. It's more bodied.
“My halmeoni always used to say this,” Suho says, glancing over at Sieun, who shifts his eyes towards him, “a full stomach makes for a happy heart.”
Sieun lowers his gaze towards the pavement, hiding his face as he resists a small smile.
“Did you also finish your service straight out of high school?”
Sieun shakes his head. “After graduating college.”
“Ah. I've also been meaning to ask, isn't it expensive to live near the station? How do you manage rent?”
Sieun seems to hesitate, before answering, “I live with a friend.”
Suho raises a brow.
“We've been dorm-mates since college. We decided to keep living together after graduation.” Sieun shares, rigid. It’s the first time he’s ever said this to anyone, apart from his penpal. He isn’t sure what compels him to be honest.
At this, Suho nods. “I see,”
He doesn’t press any further.
A comfortable silence envelops them as they stroll through the neighbouring residential streets. They carve their path through winding roads, finding themselves in a quieter area—surrounded by sprawling autumn trees, interspaced with old-money mansions. Suho notices grey clouds slowly gather in the sky, as if conspiring, and wonders when they plan on letting loose.
As few minutes later, he gets his answer as they round a corner, chatting lightly about work.
“Shit,” Suho mumbles as the sky opens up, “I saw this coming.”
They hide under the eaves of what looks like the entrance to a house, just as the rains get heavier.
Suho curses, then turns to check on Sieun, only to find that he isn’t next to him at all.
“Sieun-ssi?” he calls out in panic, eyes wide and searching.
Sieun emerges from inside the opened doorway of the house. “In here.”
“Ah.”
They discover that the house is a converted gallery of sorts. A long, spacious hall stretches out before them, filled with distinctive pieces: paintings lining the walls on either side, and statues occupying the center. Most seem to revolve around nude human forms, some grotesque and sordid, others elegant and pristine-looking.
Suho can’t help the gasp that escapes him as his gaze travels around.
“Is this,” he looks back at the entrance, the door left wide open, “is this free entry?”
Sieun shrugs, examining a painting of a nude woman with muted interest, leaning in to read the excerpt next to it.
Suho makes his way further in, gaze scanning over artwork, hands clasped behind his back. He bends to skim over the description for a couple paintings, only mildly curious, mostly perplexed.
When he turns after examining a painting of a Greek god with half-hearted interest, he’s met face-on with a gaze that chills him to his bones. His heart skips a beat.
Frozen in place, he comes to realize that it’s a statue.
It renders him speechless.
He stares at it with the kind of awe that one experiences when encountering a sight that feels larger than life. He’s never been one to appreciate or enjoy the arts, a little rough around the edges when it comes to engaging with any kind of medium that translates emotional expression. Standing in front of this statue of a defaced, semi-naked woman, a wave of mirrored terror wracks through his body: she herself looks terrified of something, her expression frozen with her eyes wide, mouth half-open in a voiceless scream.
Looking at her tattered dress, and the positioning of her limbs, he wonders if she’s in the midst of running away from something.
It sends a shiver down his spine.
Sieun comes to stand next to him.
After a moment, Suho asks, “What do you think she’s feeling?”
Sieun remains silent, then whispers, “Dispossessed.”
When Suho turns to look at him, he’s staring at the statue with a helpless gaze, face twisted in some sort of abject pain that Suho can’t put a finger on. There’s a sense of powerless grief in his eyes that mirrors the statue’s, only his mouth isn’t opened in a scream, rather pursed tightly shut, as if sworn to secrecy.
Suho can’t help but wonder.
As they make their way further in, they find a separating wall in the middle of the hall. When they round its corner to the other side, Sieun abruptly goes still. Suho nearly bumps into him. “Hey, what—”
His words get caught in his throat.
Hanging on the other side of the wall is a painting that nearly spans its entire width. As Suho inches closer, he begins to distinguish the details: mortal men and women, angels and demons alike, all entangled in various acts of sexual intimacy.
“What the fuck,” is the only thing he can manage.
His eyes drink in all the details, enraptured, as if caught in some voyeuristic, hedonistic spiral. When he finally manages to break his gaze away, he looks over to the side and huffs out a breath of disbelief.
Right in front of the painting is the only bench in the entire gallery. Artfully placed.
He turns back to Sieun, ready to ask if he’d like to have a seat. When he looks at him, however, his gaze makes Suho take pause.
He’s looking at the painting with an intensity that feels—uncharacteristic. Curiosity, fascination; maybe even a sense of trepidation, as he bites into his lower lip. Suho's reminded of his middle school self, encountering something pornographic for the first time.
Suho looks away. It’s a mistake—he makes direct eye contact with an angel in a compromising position.
He mutters a curse.
They eventually take their seats on the wooden bench. Suho gathers himself as they settle side-by-side, pulling out his phone to finally type out a message to his faceless penpal.
He empties out his wandering, confused thoughts, typing with an enthusiasm that earns him a brief side-eye from Sieun.
As soon as he presses send, Sieun’s phone dings in his pocket. “Whoa,” Suho murmurs, eyes snapping to the source of the sound, “that’s a crazy coincidence.”
Sieun nods, reaching into his pocket to pull the phone out.
When he swipes up, he sees an email notification, and clicks on it.
from: [email protected]
hey
I visited an art gallery on a random walk with a colleague today.
I’m not usually one to appreciate the arts, but I think I can tell why people do now.
I saw a statue of a naked, sort of defaced woman. she looked terrified. I don’t know what she was seeing, but it kinda sent chills down my spine first, then… guilt? pity? empathy? a mix of all of those, I guess.
I don’t know what I’m trying to say. maybe I’ve been too one-sided in the problems I’ve been facing in my relationship, you know? for women… sex, and love, must be pretty complicated for them, right?
anyway. I’m sat in front of a massive painting of an orgy. needless to say it’s really not helping right now.
hope you’re doing okay.
Sieun reads through the message, his eyes growing wider, and wider.
When he’s done, he swallows against the sudden lump of panic in his throat. His heart begins to palpitate with a frantic rhythm, his palms and the inside of his elbows growing damp with sweat.
He reads over it again, just to be sure, then looks up at Suho with wide-eyed disbelief etched into the lines of his face.
Suho, busy studying the painting in front of them with increasing interest, turns his head after a delayed beat. As their gazes meet, Sieun feels a chill run down his spine.
Suho’s brows furrow. “What?”
Sieun only looks back down at his phone screen, typing out with shaky thumbs,
Suho-ssi?
Suho’s phone dings, and he looks down at it.
Silence.
Then, his breath audibly hitches, sharp and ragged in the eerie quiet of the gallery.
He looks back up, eyes blown-out.
Shock, and trepidation in his voice, as he asks, “Sieun-ssi?”
They stare at each other for a long moment from across the bench, bodies held with impossible tension.
Then,
“Ha,” Suho huffs out a laugh, incredulous, then begins to laugh in earnest. “Are you serious?”
Sieun can only mirror his bewilderment. Gradually, the tips of his ears redden.
Finally, he murmurs, “That’s… embarrassing.”
Suho huffs in disbelief. “You’re telling me.” He manages an awkward grin, as he says, “I guess you know all about my sex life, now.”
Sieun tilts his head slightly. “Or lack of one.”
“Ha.” Suho picks at a loose thread in his pants. “Yep.”
Silence.
Suho clears his throat, adjusting his coat around himself. Then, abruptly, he unlocks his phone again with an urgency, as if a thought has occurred to him.
He taps and scrolls, then huffs in disbelief once more. “You… I’d emailed you from my personal inbox for some work-related thing, years ago. When we were still interns. That’s why you were saved… I must’ve accidentally…”
“...Oh.”
“Yeah.” Suho clicks his phone shut again. “Well. Nice to meet you, I suppose.”
Sieun gulps, then weakly echoes, “Nice to meet you.”
The painting stares them down, like some kind of cosmic irony.
They decide to continue on their stroll once the rains have calmed down, breathing a sigh of relief when they’re no longer faced with that painting.
As they’re walking, Sieun can’t help but steal curious glances at Suho. It seems unrealistic, unlikely that someone like him could have problems with his relationship. Particularly—especially—in relation to sex.
As soon as the thought occurs, he feels a warm flush spread through him. He shifts his gaze away.
“So…” Suho starts, then stops, then starts again: “So, your friend who you live with…”
Sieun murmurs, “Yeah.”
Suho hums.
The air around them thins out and takes on a sharp chill as the evening sets in. They walk through semi-crowded bylanes, a deep purple-orange twilight shrouding the area in its gloom. Streetlights flicker to life, one by one. They eventually make it out into a main road, and continue walking. Neither of them bring up a destination, content to be in the presence of the other, reluctant to part after such an unexpected revelation.
They’re about to make a turn into another road, when a passing voice suddenly calls out, “Yeon Sieun?”
Sieun freezes, then turns around, rigid. The voice is unmistakably familiar.
He feels his stomach churn as the man approaches them, a grin lighting up his face. “No way! Yeon Sieun, it’s been years—how are you?”
“Fine,” Sieun finds that his throat is clogged. He coughs to clear it. Suho shoots him a curious look in his periphery.
The man closes the distance, coming to stand in front of them.
At Sieun’s unresponsiveness, Suho shifts on his leg and smiles tentatively at the stranger. “You two know each other?”
“Ah!” He reaches out a hand to Suho. “I’m Go Hyuntak. Sieun and I served together.” He shifts his attention back to Sieun. “It’s crazy that we’ve finally met on the streets like this. I tried contacting you after our service, but…”
“I…” Sieun looks away. “I changed my number.”
“Oh! Well, can we exchange KaTalk IDs?” He reaches into his pocket to pull his phone out.
Sieun, “I don’t use KaTalk.”
Suho blinks in surprise at his flat response. Hyuntak’s face deflates.
“I see.”
Sieun stares at him, unblinking, body held with a tension that Suho sees right through. His gaze shifts over, and he examines Hyuntak with a discerning expression. He’s dressed in jeans and a jumper, hands shoved into its front pocket as he looks at Sieun with barely contained excitement. The excitement fades, somewhat, as Sieun stands unmoving.
Hyuntak finally tries, “I tried to reach out through Junho, too. Did he tell you?”
Sieun’s expression shutters. Hyuntak looks on in dawning realisation.
Finally, he gives up. “Anyway, it was nice seeing you, Yeon Sieun. Good to know that you're alive and kicking.” Hyuntak greets Suho as he leaves, lips pursed in a tight smile. “Take care.”
As he stares at his receding back, Suho asks, “Did you… Is he not a friend?”
When he looks over, Sieun’s staring into the distance with a complicated expression. His tone forlorn, he murmurs, “He was.”
They continue on their walk, Sieun sinking into a deeper silence than usual.
Eventually, they eat at a streetfood stall. Sieun barely nibbles at his dinner, too full from lunch. Suho gets some tteokbokki packed for him, saying, “Make sure you eat at home.”
Sieun manages a small, unconvincing nod.
As Suho makes light conversation with the elderly stall owner, eyes rapt in concentration, and a sweet, engaged grin on his face, Sieun can’t help but wonder if they’ll ever text each other again. A small part of him already begins to grieve it.
They arrive at an intersection.
“This is me,” Suho gestures, pointing towards the left.
Sieun nods and gestures the other way, saying, “That's me.”
They greet each other under the haze of a streetlight. As Sieun begins to walk away, Suho feels a tight clench in the pit of his stomach.
Sieun’s silhouette looks lonely.
“Sieun-ssi,” he calls, mouth moving before he can think.
Sieun turns.
“I… Can I see you again?”
Suho feels his own breath stutter. Sieun’s eyes flutter with a languid grace, face painted a hazy golden-yellow under the warmth of the streetlight.
“It’s just that… I have so much more I wanna talk to you about. It would be a shame if we stopped here, wouldn’t it?”
Suho’s heart beats in anticipation.
Then, Yeon Sieun rips his shy, uncertain eyes away from Suho’s waiting gaze.
“Yeah, okay.” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting into the smallest hint of a smile.
Suho returns it.
When Sieun goes home that night, he pads into the kitchen, switching on the dim cabinet lighting and placing the food on the counter. He finds a strange lingering emptiness arising within himself. Meeting Hyuntak, then parting with Suho only further intensifies it. It feels all too familiar.
He tries not to focus on it.
As he removes the tteokbokki containers from the plastic bag, his mind wanders back to lunch. He doesn't remember the last time he truly enjoyed and savored the process of eating, or found real pleasure and satisfaction in tasting food.
He places the boxes into the refrigerator. As he closes the refrigerator door, he revisits the look Suho gave him across the table, through the wafting smoke.
Sieun feels his knees go a little weak. That gaze, laden with indulgence that nearly felt—sensual. He can’t remember if he’s ever been on the receiving end of a gaze that warm, and heavy. He turns to lean his back against the door as it falls shut, wrapped in vivid, nebulous sensations and images.
He recalls their earlier texts—
are you? a picky eater?
so you don’t derive any pleasure from it?
He slowly comes to realize that his mouth is beginning to water.
Curious.
He raises a hand, pushing two fingers inside to feel how wet it is. He closes his eyes against it, heart stuttering as the warm, slick saliva pools around his fingertips, remembering how Suho's fingers felt against his lips when he'd shoved that first wrap into his mouth.
It makes his breath hitch.
Suddenly—a sharp intake of breath, and the violent, piercing sound of glass shattering.
He startles and wrenches his fingers out, eyes snapping open.
Junho stands by the kitchen entrance, hand frozen in the air, crystal shards of glass lying around him on the floor, refracting the dim light of the kitchen.
When Sieun finally trails his gaze up to Junho's face, what he sees in his expression makes him recoil. His face contorts and morphs in succession: shock, disgust, and sheer terror at once trying to take shape, one giving in to the other.
Finally, he whispers, “What are you doing?”
His voice sounds out sharp, but wavers as it reverbs into the space between them.
“Nothing,” Sieun murmurs, pushing past him, socked feet hastily padding against the waxed floor.
As he makes his way into his room, he feels a familiar shame take root and coil in his gut, slimy and twisted. Nausea rises in his throat, and he tries not to give into his stomach's sudden, visceral upheaval.
He washes his hands until they're pruned and red from irritation.
When Suho gets home, the house is dark and quiet. He pads into the bedroom, footsteps soft. As he enters, he sees the light of a phone screen flicker off. Yerim pulls her blanket over herself.
He takes a couple steps forward, then takes pause.
“Yerim-ah,” he whispers into the dark of the night, and sees her form shuffle under the covers.
“Yeah?” she whispers back.
“Are we ever going to talk about it?”
He can't be sure, but he thinks he sees her freeze, and go abruptly still. The air around them goes cold.
When she finally responds, her voice is stiff. “Talk about what?”
“I—”
“I want to sleep, Suho-ya.”
He sighs.
As Suho rounds the corner into the pantry one day, he overhears Juntae's tired voice saying, “I've gotta hand these documents over to admin, but I haven't found the time, Youngyi-ssi, could you—”
“I'll do it.”
They startle. Juntae's documents slip from his hands, fluttering onto the floor as they turn to find him standing against the pantry door, hands shoved into his pockets.
“Ah, s-sorry,” Juntae flounders, then kneels down to pick up the papers. Suho and Youngyi join him.
When all three finally stand up, Youngyi shoots him a look. “What's got you so excited?”
“Nothing. I need fresh air.”
She doesn't look like she buys it.
Juntae thanks him profusely as he makes his way out with the documents tucked under his arm.
He waves a hand over his shoulder.
As Suho hands Sieun the papers, he leans over the counter partition and brazenly stares.
“What is it?” Sieun asks, carding through the documents, rearranging them.
“Nothing. Are you free, during lunch?”
At this, Sieun looks up. “For what?”
“What else?” Suho tilts his head. “I want to eat lunch with you.”
Sieun’s hand stutters on the papers.
Met with unresponsiveness, he haggles, “My treat.”
Sieun’s gaze lingers on him, before looking away. He twists around to place the papers on an adjacent table.
“...Okay.”
Suho grins. He ignores the itch in his chest.
“I’ll be on my way, then.”
As he’s lumbering away, Sieun mumbles: “My treat—this time.”
Suho half-turns, throwing him a playful wink. “Okay.”
After that, they begin eating lunch together, either in the cafeteria or in Sieun's pantry. They start grabbing dinner together, too, on the days that they can't manage lunch, or whenever Suho has a new place he wants to try.
Sieun approaches the budding friendship with fascination. The only person he's consistently had in his life since high school has been Junho.
Suho's presence feels fresh, a much-needed break from monotony.
He's protective over it. Suho is the only one who happens to know about his situation with Junho, so he keeps it from him, keeping it as his own secret for now. He makes up white lies when he's out for dinner, knowing fully well that Junho must see right through them.
He tries to ignore the pang of guilt that he feels as a result.
“If you waited more than a year to bring it up, doesn't that mean you already had communication issues?”
They're at an open-air, streetside izakaya, eating yakitori and gyoza. The evening breeze ruffles their hair, gentle and beckoning, carrying the savory scent of umami.
The low lights of the hanging overhead lanterns diffuse a soft, orange-red glow, softening Sieun's features, making him even more alluring than he usually is, in Suho’s eyes.
Suho cringes. “Sieun-ssi, way to poke at an open wound.”
Sieun takes a bite out of his gyoza. He chews, delicate and slow, then swallows and murmurs, “I don't see the point in being emotional.”
Suho gapes. “What do you—of course it's an emotional—”
“No.” Sieun says. “I don't think so.”
“Why not?”
Sieun only blinks, lazy. “Isn't it important to be on the same page?” He takes a sip of his lemon sour. “It's only you who's been compromising to give her the space she needs.”
“...I didn't want to make her uncomfortable.”
“That only creates problems in the long run.” Sieun pauses, then deals the final blow with an indolent murmur: “Weren't you also trying to appease your fears?”
It hits him right where it hurts. “Clearly you're a pro.” Suho mutters, stubborn and bitter, taking an aggressive bite out of his own skewer.
Sieun only rolls his eyes at him. “I don't need to have experience to know common sense. Fool.”
“Hey—what'd you call me?”
Deadpan: “A fool.”
Suho gapes. “Yeon Sieun, you really have nerve. It's pretty cute. You're cute, you know that?”
As Sieun clears his throat and averts his eyes, biting into his skewer, Suho comes to realize that he's right.
His own lack of forthrightness stems mostly from his own unaddressed fears. He fears, deep down, that her lack of intimacy has to do with him. That he isn't enough. His ego doesn't want to be hurt. Neither does his fear of abandonment want to be poked and prodded at, after remaining dormant all these years.
It's a sobering fact. He feels his high slowly fade.
“You've got a point,” he murmurs, reluctant, as they walk through the late-night streets. A smattering of people walk in tandem around them, all with a lethargic energy in their muted steps.
“Hm?” Sieun’s take-out swings idly between the two, as they make their way to the train station.
“I suppose that both of us are avoiding the truth because we want to avoid being hurt, so we're trying to be overly considerate of each other. But even if she’s nice to me, she still won’t want to have sex with me.” He sighs. “And even if I’m nice to her, it may be because I want to have sex with her.”
Sieun tilts his head in acknowledgment.
“I don’t like the idea of… harboring those agendas.”
Sieun hums. “What do you plan to do?”
Suho watches as the occasional cars and bikes pass, eyes glazed over in thought. Their multicolored streaks of light blur as he lets his gaze unfocus. “Don’t know,” he mumbles, “she’s… it’s like she isn’t even there, sometimes.”
“Yeah,” Sieun says, his own eyes clouding over as he whispers, “I get it.”
Suho stops in his tracks.
“Sieun-ssi, for the record,”
When Sieun looks back at him, he's met with a heavy gaze—brewing simultaneously with sharp concern, and a fuzzy, mellow warmth. His own footsteps come to a halt.
Then,
“I think you deserve a lot better.”
There's that searing intensity in his gaze again. It spreads a feverish chill through Sieun's body.
In the dark of the night, it takes on a different flavor, curls around him like charcoal smoke, the taste sharpening on his tongue. Its heat is nearly unbearable. It feels forbidden.
Heady.