Things were bad. Things were very, very bad.

Jeonghan had been around for almost two weeks. At this rate, Seungcheol had expected for himself to be irritated at the singer for always spoiling his plush Corbusier sofa with drool stains and stray strands of blonde hair; for always knocking picture books and mannequins and brass figurines over at his cramped vintage shop; for always needing infinite persuasions for his and Chan’s impromptu adventures. But he wasn’t. He was not irritated or upset or angry, not even one bit.

Why wasn’t he?

If anything, Jeonghan’s presence was gradually more and more engraved at his apartment. His clothes were practically everywhere (draped on the stairs railing, sitting on the hallway floor—he had had purchased a bountiful at a remote department store), his fridge screamed of Jeonghan’s favorite cuisine from parts of the world he had visited (Seungcheol reluctantly admitted he consumed Indonesian pempek and Canadian poutine a lot more these days), and the comforter-containing cabinet were filled to the brim with Jeonghan’s Donald Duck blankets. Chan even introduced him to the landlady, who was blissfully oblivious and talked to Jeonghan in a strange, honey-coated voice Seungcheol was certain she favored the singer over him. Pedro also ran into Jeonghan in the lobby, and Seungcheol was convinced Pedro was blinded by Jeonghan’s treat for pastries to be able to recognize him right in the face.

He should mind. He should mind very much.

But he didn’t.

And that was why things were very, very bad.

“Get rid of him,” Wonwoo said when he came over to the apartment and they sipped cocktails for brunch. Jeonghan was away hunting for musical instruments (using his own money, of course, though Seungcheol had no idea from where he had gotten it), and Wonwoo picked the right time to pour out his so-called worries. “He’s toxic. I admit, he’s fun and all, but he’s toxic for you. Tell him to stay at my place.”

“And disappoint Chan? No chance,” Seungcheol breathed out, taking a chug of his martini. “He worships the guy. I’m not going to kick him out.”

“You’ve never said a single complaint about him!” shrieked Wonwoo, his gimlet almost spilling on the kitchen island. “I know you, Choi Seungcheol. You’re getting the hots for him.”

Seungcheol masked his nervousness with a scoff. “Bull.”

“Don’t bull at me. He comes to you, he gets closer to you, you don’t push him away, and voila! Another abandonment for Chan when things get rough. This is Jihoon all over again.”

“The difference is that Jihoon was not a famous singer.” Seungcheol rolled his eyes as he downed his drink. His head was buzzing merrily and his ears were ringing comfortably, and he got to his feet to make some more. “Jeonghan is going to go away.” He hesitated for a split second. “I’m sure of it.”

Wonwoo eyed him maliciously over his glass. “He better.”

“Sometimes I wish you’ve got a boyfriend so that you won’t pick on my love life every time,” Seungcheol whined.

Wonwoo let out a chuckle. “Be ready for years of your love life getting picked on, then.”

Seungcheol knew Jeonghan had to leave. It was a must—with Wonwoo’s continuous insistence of how wolfing breakfast, lunch, and dinner with Jeonghan was insane, of how pondering whether to buy an airbed or not for Jeonghan’s comfort was jeopardizing, of how exchanging numbers with Jeonghan and texting Jeonghan during Jeonghan’s departure for Chan’s school and studio was basically a life-threatening decision—and there was no other option. So when Jeonghan approached him at the shop and informed him that he had texted his manager to meet up, Seungcheol waited for the relief and joy to come. They never did.

“I told him to meet me at Castanho,” Jeonghan said rather timidly. “On Saturday. You… don’t mind, right?”

“No, not at all,” he answered, and his throat went dry all of the sudden. “Is it the manager you talked about? The one with the supposedly mercurial temperament? Or is it someone else?”

Jeonghan laughed. “I may be a worldwide sensation, but I only have one manager, Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol’s cheeks instantly flushed. “Well—I just assumed—wait, are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Concern seeped through his tone of voice. “What if he starts making a commotion? After all you’ve done to keep yourself low?”

Jeonghan waved his hand in the air. “We’ll be fine. I know how to handle him.”

“But he’s going to be pissed off!”

“He’s already more than that. You should’ve heard his voice messages.”

“I’m serious, Jeonghan. You wouldn’t want to be discovered, especially in Castanho.”

“Don’t you think I already know that? It’s just a meet-up. Stop freaking out, Seungcheol.”

“I’m not freaking out. I’m just—”

“What?” Jeonghan cut off, his tone teasing. “Are you worrying about me, Choi Seungcheol?”

This left Seungcheol with his jaw dropped, words stammering out of his mouth, and then the door swung open and revealed a new throng of customers, burying the topic in the silence stretched between the two.

Weekend dinners were practically a holy tradition for Seungcheol, considering that he got to see Chan’s brilliantly lit face over peach-colored napkins and colorful chunks of exquisite dishes on glossy plates. He even tolerated Wonwoo’s presence, who willingly appeared every eight P.M. on Saturday nights with Chan in tow, only to accomplish his goal of tasting Castanho for dinner and boast to his co-workers about how he regularly ate at a five-star restaurant. But Jeonghan, famous Yoon Jeonghan was added into the mix of unwavering routine and table for three near the bar, and Seungcheol was not sure how good the outcome would be.

Just a meet-up. Just a meet-up. The phrase kept ringing in his eardrum as Seungcheol sank the metal scoop through the ice cubes, using a little too much force than necessary. Just a meet-up. The four words blocked Pennyroyal Tea booming from his earphones, and a two-minute struggle commenced before he yanked them away, just when one of his co-workers Maria blurted out, “Hey, who’s that with your son?”

Jeonghan materialized on the doorway, his blonde hair concealed underneath a pinstriped hoodie and his nowadays trademark sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. He scanned the room in wariness that none of his accouterments could hide, but it quickly vaporized once his gaze landed on Seungcheol across the dining room, a relieved smile blooming on his lips.

Seungcheol tried hard not to smile back so foolishly (and unreasonably) wide.                            

Chan then appeared, his fingers intertwined with Jeonghan’s, and his trained eyes was swift to find his father. Chan waved his free arm in excitement at Seungcheol, who chuckled and raised a hand, acknowledging his presence. He was still donned in his new dance crew jacket, an awfully vivid one, which presented an outright contrast to the brown and bleak nuance of the packed restaurant. Wonwoo trailed not far behind, a wide grin on his face, eyes locked on the passing waiters carrying trays full of avant-garde cuisine.

“He’s my brother,” Seungcheol lied, inviting Maria’s upward twitch of an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned it once or twice,” he easily evaded, then exhaled in relaxation once Maria scuttled away without another word.

When he turned around, Jeonghan was seated in front of him, on the very seat he had been the night they first met. The smile on his lips grew wider as he spoke. “It’s a very nice restaurant.”

“It is,” Seungcheol agreed, cursing mentally at himself when he could not come up with more to say.

Jeonghan nodded. “I sat here, didn’t I? The night we met.”

“Yes, you did.” He caught himself. “Wait, you remember?”

“I never forget,” Jeonghan chirped happily.

Seungcheol threw him a doubtful look, and the long-haired man rolled his eyes.

“One Jameson on the Rocks—well, two, actually—and one French seventy-five. Light My Fire. Dead man, madman.” His eyes twinkled. “Like I said, I never forget.”

They exchanged a few seconds of eye contact, intense and cautious and pleasant before someone slapped a hand on the wooden bar and pulled them out of their trance.

“As much as your son likes seeing the two of you together,” Wonwoo spat in a bitter tone, darting his gaze on the two of them and resting it momentarily longer on Seungcheol, “Chan wants to talk to you both before he orders.”

Figuring he could leave the bar for a harmless moment or two, Seungcheol passed through the barrier and the three of them reached Chan on the nearest round table, a large unopened menu trapped in his arms.

“Dad! Dad! Sit next to me!” he cheered, tipping his chin to the empty chair on his left.

Seungcheol obliged. Jeonghan was seated across him, and the table was so tiny their sneakers-covered feet touched each other at the toes. Seungcheol gave them a playful nudge, welcoming Jeonghan’s chuckles and a kick right on the ankle. Wonwoo’s gaze traveled to Seungcheol’s face in just a nanosecond, and the latter blinked his eyes.

What am I doing?

“Dad, aren’t you going to ask me about my practice?” Chan’s disappointed voice was heard, his lips jutted out into a pout. “Today was my first practice with the crew!”

“Oh, yes, right.” Seungcheol nodded, clasping his fingers under the table. “How did it go?”

“It was awesome!” Chan exclaimed with a series of fervent nods, his expression brightening. “I have a new instructor, and he’s Korean too! His name is Soonyoung. He’s really good! You should see him dance, Dad. He’s waaay better than me! Oh oh, and he bought me ice cream after practice! Jeonghan came with us, too.”

A frown made its way to Seungcheol’s face. “Really? Did he recognize you?” He turned to Jeonghan, who merely shrugged.

“No, but he seems suspicious. I’ll try to refuse any more ice cream invitations coming up.” He nodded earnestly before laughing. “You know, I thought he was trying to kidnap Chan before I realized they were wearing the same jackets.”

Wonwoo muttered “Moron!” through intentional, fake coughs, and Jeonghan slapped him on the shoulder with a piece of complimentary bread.

“That’s really nice of Soonyoung.” Seungcheol nodded his head approvingly, flashing a smile at his son. “I bet you three had a lot of fun together.”

“It would be more fun if you were there!” said Chan as he sneaked a look at Jeonghan. “Would you come watch me again like you used to?”

Seungcheol stiffened before he knew it.

“One day, Chan, one day,” Wonwoo spoke on his behalf as Seungcheol struggled to fight the awful, bland taste in his mouth. “He’s preoccupied with the shop so far.”

Chan whined his counterattack and Seungcheol’s ears obstructed the sound. He could feel Jeonghan’s attentive eyes boring into him, his feet kicking Seungcheol’s rather urgently as if he demanded an answer to an unspoken question, and Seungcheol snapped his eyes shut, fettuccine and pink hair and narrow eyes flowing through his mind in an instant—

“Yoon. ing. Jeonghan.”

Seungcheol’s head shot up. A man towered over their table, all lanky and tanned skin and exotic blue locks. His shoulders were uneven; his right sagging under the weight of a brown leather sling bag. His eyes glinted malignantly and were focused on Jeonghan, who seemed to cower under his jacket and into the plush seat. Chan and Wonwoo’s conversation halted and instead they cast curious glances at the intruding stranger.

Seungcheol tucked his knuckles into fists and bit his lips, limping his way through the foggy memories and slipping back into the real, familiar world. He choked his way through the introduction.

“Everyone, this is Jeonghan’s manager.”

The tall man tore his intensive gaze from Jeonghan and dropped it to Seungcheol. His brows furrowed in the littlest bit of skepticism before his face lit up and his lips formed a polite smile. “Kim Mingyu,” he said in a low but amiable tone, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Seungcheol gingerly stood on his feet, drawing in a breath as to maintain his steadiness and shaking his hand firmly with Mingyu’s. “Likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you from Jeonghan.”

“This is Seungcheol,” Jeonghan whispered meekly. “And that is Chan.”

Both of them retracted their hands no less than three seconds after, and Mingyu had his attention all on the eight-year-old when Seungcheol settled back in his seat. “Chan?” He held out his hand again, and they exchanged high fives with a giggle from Chan. “I’m Mingyu. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too!” Chan said. “And what does ing mean?”

Seungcheol’s eyes instantly widened, and a tinge of red crept on Mingyu’s cheeks. “Eh—it’s—”

“Nothing important, buddy,” Seungcheol interjected sternly, a frown worn on his face when Wonwoo’s short cackle hit his ears. “Nothing important at all.”

Jeonghan even managed a small laugh. “Don’t worry, Chan, it really is nothing important. And—Mingyu—that is Wonwoo.”

Mingyu’s eyes found Wonwoo’s, and Seungcheol swore he could hear his friend emit a gasp next to him.

“Uh, Wonwoo?” he doubtfully questioned. Five long seconds had passed and neither two of them had terminated the eye contact. Seungcheol traded anxious glances with Jeonghan and Chan before motioning a hand over Wonwoo’s face, frozen with his jaw dropped, and that seemed to snap him out of whatever daze he was in.

“I—uh—what?” he stuttered, his attention switching to Seungcheol.

A fit of giggles escaped Chan’s lips and Jeonghan could not help an amused smile. Mingyu seemed to recover as well, and he shoved a hand across the table, a smile wider and brighter than any he had given Seungcheol or Chan hanging on his lips.

“Hi, I’m Jeonghan’s manager. Mingyu. Kim Mingyu. You’re handsome. I mean—you look good. Though it’s not—I’m—” He heaved a dreamy sigh, his expression still bright and awestruck despite his splintered words. “I’m making a fool of myself.”

Wonwoo’s focus returned to Mingyu and he curved up a bashful smile. Seungcheol had never seen Wonwoo bashful before—heck, he didn’t even know Wonwoo was capable of being bashful—and it caused his brows to shoot high up in incredulity.

“It’s okay. I’m Jeon Wonwoo. You look good, too,” uttered Wonwoo, much to Mingyu’s merriment and Seungcheol’s surprise.

“Come sit with us!” Chan half-yelled, pointing at an empty seat at an unoccupied table and making a pull-that-over-here motion. “Uncle Wonwoo would just love to have you here!”

Seungcheol and Jeonghan burst out laughing. Wonwoo’s cheeks instantly reddened and he directed his leg at Chan’s, the young boy’s “Ow!” subsequently heard and Seungcheol’s pointed glare subsequently received.

Mingyu brought his gaze down to his feet in an attempt to hide his also flushing face, though all of them had caught a glimpse. He shrugged, saying, “I don’t know—I think—I think—” He lifted his eyes, met Wonwoo’s eyes for a few seconds, and shook his head, his expression slowly transforming to a more serious, hardened one. “I’m sorry, but business first,” he pressed, affirming his words by shooting Jeonghan another dirty look. “Come on, Jeonghan. I’ve booked us a table.”

The remnants of their laughter left, and Jeonghan cleared his throat and moved his seat backward. Seungcheol sank his teeth to his lips as Jeonghan rose to his quivering feet, managing a weak smile at everyone but mostly him.

“I’ll be back before the main course,” he announced, before shuffling away, ahead of Mingyu.

Seungcheol unconsciously let out a silent sigh, and Mingyu rolled his eyes at Jeonghan’s retreating figure. “That idiot doesn’t even know where my table is,” he muttered. He darted his gaze around the three of them, lingering on Wonwoo, and continued, “I’ll try not to keep him long. I’ll be back.” He momentarily returned to his usual self, winked at Wonwoo, and went on his way.

When both of them were swallowed by the thriving horde of fancily-clad customers and red-jacketed waiters and waitresses, Chan squealed and kicked Wonwoo’s ankle so many times the table rocked.

“He. Definitely. Has. A. Crush. On. You!”

“Pal, pal, slow down!” Seungcheol a hand and gripped his son’s shoulder, Wonwoo all the while painfully chanting “Ow! Ow! Chan!” When Chan folded his legs back in place minutes later, Wonwoo presented Seungcheol an aggravated glare. “Slow down?”

Seungcheol only shrugged. “I figured—”

“I’m this close to cussing your bottom off, Seungcheol, and I don’t give a pinch that your son’s here—”

“Your orders, sirs?”

They all turned around, and Seungcheol groaned when he discovered it was Dimas, standing nervously with a pen and paper in hand, his red jacket loose and his bowtie sloppy. “Hey, Seungcheol,” he feebly croaked.

“What took you so long?” commented Seungcheol. “Boss is going to kick you out of your internship if he finds out you’re lagging with orders.”

“The bar’s unattended,” he retorted with a small increase in confidence.

“I can manage. The special for three. Now go!”

Dimas scurried off, dropping his barely written paper in the process, and Seungcheol ascended from his seat, Chan complaining afterward.

“Dad, stay a little longer! The bar is fine!”

“Sorry, kid, got to go or else I’ll lose the job.” Seungcheol planted a kiss on Chan’s forehead and ruffled his hair before looking at Wonwoo. “Hey, I think I’ve found your new boyfriend.” He nodded at a white-linen table in the far corner, Jeonghan and Mingyu huddled on it, conversing (or debating, Seungcheol rephrased).

Wonwoo twisted his head to get a good view of the table and scowled. “Shut up, Seungcheol. He’s not. Going to be, I mean.”

“Still in denial, huh?” Seungcheol forced a chuckle out of him, albeit his peripheral vision captured Jeonghan’s restless face that caused his chest to tingle weirdly. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

He skillfully steered himself back to the gleaming bar through the bubbling crowd, pursing his lips and hoping that Wonwoo would be too engrossed with the prospect of having Mingyu as a potential candidate to pay attention to Seungcheol, who would be left alone to deal with his and Jeonghan’s wobbly condition in his own inadequate, pathetic way.

 

---

 

Castanho was getting more crowded and fetid by the hour. The unseen air conditioners blast a new, urgent gust of cool air on everyone’s backs, but that was not why Jeonghan’s hands trembled. Dread was the reason, looming overhead on a thin string of wire. The insides of his cheeks were throbbing and swollen, but he could not stop chewing on them. The blood rushed out and flooded his mouth, while his eyes watched Mingyu produce documents from a folder he had saved inside a leather sling bag as if he were a police conducting an interrogation of an accused crime doer.

He did feel like he was going to be interrogated, anyway.

“Do you know how deep in I am?” Mingyu began, his hands slamming the files harder than necessary on the linen-clothed table. “The executives from Korea are calling relentlessly. They’re hovering right over my ing head, calling me incompetent and . And then the schedules! You’ve practically waltzed your way out, abandoning that interview with that Carla presenter, which would have been the interview, the one that would have launched you in the Southern America market! Not that you’re not already popular, but still. You two would have talked about the Rio concert, which did not happen, and what gives? I—”

 “A minute ago you were smitten with Wonwoo over there,” Jeonghan groaned, rubbing his fingers on his temples. “Can you just get a grip for a sec?”

“Get a grip?!” Mingyu repeated in disbelief. “Do you honestly think I can ‘get a grip’ after the world’s beloved musician went MIA for two weeks?”

“It’s not two weeks yet,” corrected Jeonghan, his arms folded across his chest, “and they don’t love me. The world doesn’t love me.”

“I know you’re stressed out and all,” said Mingyu in a frustrated tone, “but damn it, Jeonghan, you could’ve given me a heads-up. We’re a team. Or I thought we were. You know I’m not one of those corporate guys. I’m their puppet, just like you.”

“Puppet? You’re not the one being publicized and criticized left and right,” Jeonghan spat in disgust. The nerves and headaches were threatening to pile up inside him after vanishing for almost two weeks, and he sank a little further into his seat. “And what about that false news? ‘Yoon Jeonghan Issues Apology’? Wow, that’s pretty un-corporate of you.”

Mingyu huffed a “ing , Jeonghan” the minute a waitress appeared with a tray of Heineken (Mingyu’s) and Jameson on the Rocks (Jeonghan’s). Mingyu drank half of his beer while the waitress was still in the process of serving Jeonghan his order. A napkin tagged along with it, and the waitress placed it next to his liquor with a sly smile. Jeonghan’s breath hitched as he read the writing scribbled messily on it.

Hope you can get out of there alive. – SC

A smile automatically took over his lips, and Jeonghan’s head snapped up so quick Mingyu jumped in his seat. His eyes found the bar, but to his dismay, Seungcheol was busy shaking a metal tumbler and spinning it between his hands, a throng of scantily clothed girls cheering and clapping in the seats before him. Jeonghan swallowed the blood and disappointment as he folded the napkin and stuffed it into his pocket.

“… As if I weren’t up for the job! And what was with the major cash withdrawal? We traced your credit card but we lost track since you didn’t make any ATM transactions since. You must’ve—you aren’t listening, are you?”

Jeonghan looked up only to find Mingyu clicking his tongue at him. The latter scanned the heap of files before him, lip-biting and head immersed in thought, his fingers drumming against the almost-empty bottle of beer. Jeonghan waited next to him, contemplating how well blended alcohol and blood would taste.

Mingyu finally spoke up after a whole minute of uncomfortable silence. “I think I’ve got to deal with you first before we deal with all the publicity problems.” He leaned back against his chair and downed the last drops of his Heineken. The sight told Jeonghan nothing but exasperation. “So, let’s take a stroll down the unwanted memory lane. What did you do, where did you go after you abandoned me in the middle of central Rio?”

Jeonghan winced. Even hollow memories could harm him. How could he withstand the reality for so long? “I got drunk at the first bar I saw,” he started, curling his fingers atop the table. “But they tried to kick me out, and when I refused they punched me. So I went to another bar. And they did the same. And then another. And then another. And then another. And then here.”

Mingyu raised a brow. “Here?”

“Here,” he confirmed. “I met Seungcheol here. Right—” He turned his head to face the bar, and Mingyu copied his action. Jeonghan narrowed his eyes and scrutinized the golden space before pointing at a certain black stool. “There, third from the left. Right where that is sitting.”

“Where the what?” Mingyu asked, and Jeonghan caught himself. ?

“Nothing,” he lied. “Anyways, he gave me a few drinks, we talked a bit, and I passed out. He brought me to his apartment and told me I could stay for as long as I like.” He his lips. The girl who was sitting in his seat (technically it wasn’t, but Jeonghan liked to think of it as that way) had her sequined dress-wrapped torso against the wooden bar, flirting with Seungcheol with an evident air of confidence and shamelessness. .

Now, where did that thought come from?

“And you’ve been staying with him ever since?” Mingyu continued doubtfully, separating Jeonghan from his puzzled thoughts. “Wow. I didn’t expect you’d run into someone Korean. I mean, what are the odds, right?”

“Just blind luck, I guess,” murmured Jeonghan, shaking questions and assumptions away from his head with a decisive swig of his drink. His tongue coiled at the taste—bitter, immensely horrible—but he gulped it nevertheless. “What about you? How many times have you thought of killing me?”

Mingyu snapped his fingers at a passing waiter and mentioned an order of a double scotch before returning to their conversation. “Approximately five thousand times every single day. When you didn’t show up for the concert, I nearly destroyed the sound system. I phoned Seokmin, but he said he didn’t see you since the last time we were there. I downed, like, two and a half Coronas before calming the audience down. They were ing pissed off. They booed me. They ing booed me for your ing doing.”

He paused, and Jeonghan suspected he did that for the sake of pleasure, of being able to watch how his words affected him. They were horrible and painful and honest, and Jeonghan knew he deserved this: the crushing weight of consequences that tailed his irresponsible escapade to a moderately disconnected, rock-loving family. It made his stomach twist into a vexatious churn, and he finished his Jameson in one go, the horrid mixture coating his tongue in a repugnant aftertaste. Another waiter walked past, and Jeonghan flagged him for a glass of water.

“The execs called right after the first tabloid got the first article posted,” Mingyu resumed when his scotch was placed in front of him. “I tried to cover for you—see, I’m a nice manager, I tried to cover your ty —but in the end, I had to tell them, anyway. They got hate mails already, they said, and threatened me to fix it or else I’d lose my job. Dramatic. As if they could find somebody that could handle you better than I could. So, I did what I had in mind.” He twirled the glass between his fingers and took a delicate sip.

Jeonghan furrowed his brows. “Fabricate a story about how sorry I am to the audience and public?”

“Nope,” he replied, his voice soft and drunk, “Yoga. I took yoga.”

Jeonghan’s jaw dropped. Did he hear him correctly?

“Now, before you say anything”—Mingyu curved up a tipsy smile, and Jeonghan was positive his manager was halfway into drunkenness—“It was Seokmin’s suggestion. He’s been doing it for a while and recommended it to me. Thought I could release some stress in the middle of this hole of a situation. And it works. I’m good, surprisingly good. I was the first one in my class to have done a perfect, non-wobbly half-bow pose. No more stress, too. I attend sessions regularly with Seokmin, but I always ditch him when they end because he keeps staying for this dude in our—”

“Enough with the yoga talk,” Jeonghan interrupted in an impatient tone. “You still haven’t told me about that fabricated story.”

Mingyu tapped the side of his glass. “Ah, that. Well, it’s a show to save their faces. The execs. The company. I know you know they want you out, but until all the papers are signed, you’re still with them and their reputation is still riding on you. They also hoped it’d rouse you to come out of hiding—since they know you hate fake stories like that. But you didn’t, and we couldn’t possibly contact the police, but some wanted to hire private investigators. The bit of ‘quietly reflecting on my actions’ buys us time to search for you. But then you texted me.”

Jeonghan’s glass of water came, but it did nothing to aid the riddance of the disgusting taste enveloping his tongue. The nerves and headaches established themselves as he settled his glass back on the table. “So they know about us meeting up?”

“I told them at first—that you texted me—but then I said it was an impostor,” Mingyu talked, and Jeonghan cocked his head to the side in confusion. “I don’t know in which direction this meet-up is going. And knowing you, there must be some unusual things on the table.”

Jeonghan pursed his lips. “There’s nothing unusual about me wanting to stay for a while.”

“Stay where? Here?” Mingyu indignantly shook his head. “You can’t possibly do that. You can’t possibly consider that.”

“Why not?” Jeonghan said defensively, his tone rising an octave. He caught Chan and Wonwoo guffawing at their table from his peripheral vision, and somehow that surged his courage. “I’m no good there. There’s nothing in it for—”

“They’re planning to sue you,” interjected his manager, jabbing a finger at a paper on the very top of the pile. “See this? This is from the Rio audience. I put off returning their money as long as possible, but they took legal action instead. You showing up would lessen the chance of them going to court with this.”

Jeonghan’s eyes widened and swallowed every last bit of detail inscribed on the paper. Terribly offended, ashamed to have attended, exponential loss of money—the words swam through his mind in a dizzying blur, his bravery toppling down as swiftly as it had taken place.

Mingyu continued, ignorant to the despondency registered on Jeonghan’s face and the trembling grip of his fingers on the sheet of paper. He flipped through the numerous amounts and pulled out another, clearing his throat in the process. “This is from the bloke you beat up back in Tokyo. Lost a couple of teeth and shattered a few bones. This”—he showed Jeonghan another paper—“is from another guy in London. You kicked him out of his own bar.”

Jeonghan stabbed his teeth through the insides of his cheeks before he could think about it. Stinging pain spread through his face, and his tongue sensed the familiar taste of blood a moment after. Grimacing, he loosened his hold around the paper, drew his hand to his pocket, and touched Seungcheol’s napkin with a fingertip. Get out of there alive.

“What—is—your point?” he stammered through a mouthful of blood. “Are you just cornering me to tell me about how much I’ve been a jackass?”

“No,” Mingyu denied, sounding insulted. “My point is that you’ve got responsibilities. These s can cost you your career. So, unless you want to be an unemployed bastard with a lot of people hating on you, I suggest we take the first flight back to Korea and sort things out. No more dilly-dally. No more dithering in Rio. We’ll fix this once and for all, and voila! Everything will be back on track just like they used to.”

Mingyu’s blast of words only intensified the nerves and headaches—they were tearing him down, drowning and destroying him all at once. His legs were beginning to shake under the table, and Jeonghan forced himself to part his lips and welcome a few breaths of air.

“I can’t,” he choked. “I can’t. I ing can’t, Mingyu. I can’t and I don’t want to.”

He could feel his words fueling Mingyu’s unquestionable temper, and it was a miracle his manager didn’t explode into a stream of shrieks right then and there. Instead, his tone got considerably lower but a million times more hurtful. “Nothing is keeping you here, Jeonghan. You’re free to go. You’re lying to yourself. You’ve got a life waiting out there—”

“I thought we were supposed to be a team,” Jeonghan managed a whisper, his distressed gaze meeting Mingyu’s outraged one. “I thought you would back me up on everything I did.”

“Are you ing listening to yourself? I’m not going to back you up on this!” Mingyu hit his palms on the table, almost sending their glasses towards the floor. “Abandoning your career and these people and with your whole reputation at stake?” He shook his head vigorously, wandering his gaze around the restaurant as if the mere act could help him believe in this insanity. “Honestly, Jeonghan, what could possibly—”

Chan and Wonwoo’s table entered his view. Jeonghan followed the direction of his orbs: He could spot Seungcheol ambling across the room, popping the top buttons of his dress shirt, and dropping himself into his seat, resulting in Chan squealing and clapping his hands in happiness. Wonwoo, his face unseen, leaned in and whispered something to the father and son duo which rose the laughter out of them, their faces lighting up as they threw their heads back.

And Jeonghan knew Mingyu knew.

“.” Mingyu turned his head back to him, his expression hardening. “Them?”

“It’s not like what you think,” countered Jeonghan, voicing the words before Mingyu’s (other) outburst submerged them. “They’re not really that happy, they’re disconnected, they’re a little ruined, the poor kid’s—”

“I don’t give a about the kid, Jeonghan,” Mingyu cut off, leaning in dangerously. “They’re a broken family. So what? I know what it’s like. You perfectly know I came from that background. And I turn out fine! Chan just has to go through tough things to make him understand—”

Jeonghan shook his head, and to his comfort and astonishment, determination was building up inside him. “No, he doesn’t. If I can help them, then why shouldn’t I?”

Mingyu sank his teeth to his lips, his face contorting in annoyance. “Because they don’t need your help. It’s natural for families to have problems. You don’t have to in and ruin things—”

“I’m not going to! For the record, they love having me there—”

“Because you’re ing famous!” Mingyu cried. “They will do whatever it takes to squeeze all the money and advantages out of you!”

Jeonghan’s entire body stiffened. Before Mingyu could open his mouth to add a few more words, he whispered in a singular, knifelike tone: “Don’t you dare speak about them like that. They’re not that low.”

Mingyu kept him glued to the spot with a perplexed glare. Sixty-three seconds of excruciating silence ensued—and yes, Jeonghan counted—before his manager heaved a forlorn sigh and assembled the papers scattered across the linen table. Jeonghan was about to guess that he was on board, but he knew Mingyu the Manager was never that uncomplicated to convince.

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” Mingyu told, stacking the papers despite its already orderly condition.

“Seen me like what?” Jeonghan demanded. He found himself chewing on the insides of his cheeks again, but the blood must have run out (he hoped that was not a jeopardizing thing).

“Defending someone else,” he enunciated, and that caught Jeonghan off-guard. “It’s always been you, you, you. I’m not going to lie: I’m scared.”

Jeonghan dipped his head down. “I’m scared, too,” he confessed, the awkward yet unwavering words rolling on his tongue in slow motion.

“You know you don’t have to do this,” Mingyu said in a softer, kinder tone, and Jeonghan sensed his shoulders sagging and his stomach unknotting and the nerves and headaches disappearing in relief. “Well, in fact, you shouldn’t do this. But—”

“I want to,” he croaked, and Mingyu shut his mouth. “That’s the ed up thing. I want to. Isn’t that weird? I want to help. And it’s not for my sake—it’s just—”

The words stopped there, just as his mind. He could not think any further.

“Just what?” Mingyu waited.

Jeonghan lifted his head after a moment, scrambling his thoughts and searching his words.

“I’ve been a pain in the for a long time. To you. To the execs. To those people.” He tipped his chin towards the papers still grasped in Mingyu’s hold. “I just—I think this is my shot at finally doing something good. For other people. To make them remember me for doing something worthy instead of for ing things up.”

Mingyu tilted his head. “Just almost two weeks and yet you’ve become one of the creepiest people I’ve ever known.”

Jeonghan shrugged, a small smile on his lips. “Even pain-in-the-asses have a soft side.”

“And you only show me this after six whole years?” He clicked his tongue in a distasteful manner as he shoved the papers back into the folder. “Talk about being one of your confidants.”

Jeonghan’s smile grew exceptionally wider. “So—it’s a green light?”

Mingyu stuffed the folder into his sling bag, purposefully taking his time before meeting Jeonghan’s hopeful eyes.

“I’m backing you up on redemption. Nothing else.”

Jeonghan quickly nodded and his smile turned into a full-on grin. “Of course, Mr. Kim.”

“Stop grinning so wide, it’s scary,” Mingyu complained and threw him a napkin from his empty porcelain plate. “Do something about your cheeks. They look horrible, and I don’t want you to bleed all over and embarrass me while I flirt with Jeon Wonwoo.”

 

---

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat?”

“I’m sure.”

“That quindim shop you like is only a few turns from here. The twenty-four-hour one. We can stop by if you want.”

“I said I don’t want to eat, Cheol.”

Seungcheol’s eyes slightly widened in surprise. “Cheol, huh?”

“I—” Jeonghan winced. “That came out of nowhere. Shut up.”

Laughter slipped out of Seungcheol’s lips, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “I didn’t say anything!”

“Keep it down,” he warned, nudging to Chan curled up into a ball on his lap, his eyes tightly shut in slumber. “You might wake him up.”

Seungcheol raised his free hand in the air as a sign of compliance. He let his gaze linger at his sleeping son a few seconds more. His black hair was protruding oddly in a messy mass, his lips were chapped and dry after a whole night of eating too much and guffawing too loud, and a dribble of saliva ran along his chin and blotched the collar of his dance jacket. Yet Seungcheol never knew anyone else who could make him float in the surges of warmth and serenity that engulfed him just like now.

Jeonghan extended a finger to lower the volume of Killer Queen booming through the speakers, and Seungcheol retracted his eyes back to the main view. The city was alive, pulsing and clamoring in the one A.M. spirit. Glimmering stores crowned with posh townhouses bordered on each street they drove past (in Seungcheol’s dangerous, clumsy way of handling the silver Prius), each brighter than the last. The cold wind carried the faint bass and 60s disco music, impassionedly blasted from the string of nightclubs that glowed in lights and laughter. The never-ending sight of Brazilian fervor succeeded in distracting Seungcheol from the frantic traffic ahead and around him, from the fatigue that was beginning to seep into his bones, from the hammering heart and the brown orbs locked on the back of his head.

“I wonder if Wonwoo and Mingyu have left yet,” he uttered, and Jeonghan’s eyes peeled away.

“There are three possibilities,” he said, his tone rather shaky. “They are making out in the car, they are making out in Wonwoo’s apartment, or they are making out at the restaurant.”

Seungcheol gasped. “They can’t possibly—”

“Did you really see them during dinner?”

Seungcheol frowned. Their dinner was a frenetic, overjoyed scene: the white linen table shuddering due to the merciless attacks of their legs underneath, steaks and risottos and soufflés gone increasingly cold and uneaten (largely on Jeonghan’s part), low chuckles and raucous snickers resounding from every seat around. It was a blur—a happy, live-in-the-moment blur—but Seungcheol’s mind captured the moments where crude smiles were exchanged between the two, Mingyu’s seat purposefully wedged between Jeonghan’s and Wonwoo’s, and their hushed whispers that elicited Chan’s displeased pout and an earsplitting “I’m a big boy! I want to know what’s going on!”

“Well, I guess you have a point,” Seungcheol acknowledged, just when the traffic straggled forward. The Prius gave an alarming jolt (“Choi ing Seung—” “Sorry, sorry!”) before it skidded through the gaps between gleaming sports cars and mustard-colored taxis, on its way home.

Two-thirty A.M. marked their arrival at Seungcheol’s apartment. Despite the wee hours of dawn, most of the doors that led to the living spaces still enclosed the muffled whizzing and prominent footsteps from the inside. Jeonghan held Chan in his arms, cradling him expertly while Seungcheol fumbled with the passcode, his mind hazy with two G&T and one vodka martini.

“How did it go with Mingyu earlier?” Seungcheol questioned once the machine’s beep sent a relieved sigh out of him. It came to Seungcheol that they had not talked much in private during dinner and the car ride—they had been too focused with Chan suddenly slumped over his plate of poached pears, and by the time they had finished cleaning up vanilla sauce from his cheeks, they decided to call it a night.

“Terrible at first, but hey, I survived, didn’t I?” Jeonghan flashed a smile as he slid through the threshold. Seungcheol trailed behind, taking off Chan’s shoes and socks and dropping them to the carpeted floor, the sound nearly obliterating Jeonghan’s soft “Thanks for that napkin, by the way.”

Heat crept over Seungcheol’s cheeks in an instant and he dipped his head down so that Jeonghan would not notice. Blushing? Seriously? “I—no problem. I just thought you needed a boost.”

“Oh, it boosted me, all right.” Jeonghan chuckled, trod up the stairs, and stopped in his tracks midway to twist his head to Seungcheol at the bottom of the steps, his expression menacing. “Don’t even dare thinking about tucking in first. You need to help me change him into his PJs.”

Seungcheol whined, “Come on! He’ll still be soundly asleep, anyway!” but he followed Jeonghan obediently towards the blue bedroom less than a minute later.

When Chan was strapped in his Michael Jackson pajamas, his figure hidden partially by the white comforter, and his forehead was a tinge of red after Seungcheol’s and Jeonghan’s too long of a goodnight kiss, the adults marched down the stairs and entered the kitchen. Both of them were wobbling with exhaustion, yet an impulsive fix of coffee was the first thing that came to mind for them to spend the remainder of the dawn. Seungcheol also suggested they eat something, which was met with Jeonghan’s scowl, but he was having none of it.

“Help me out,” Seungcheol complained as he dove through the refrigerator. “I don’t recognize a fourth of the frick frack you’ve stored in here!”

“They’re not frick frack,” Jeonghan insisted, pushing the black-haired man out of the way. “Sit tight. I’ll get you the coffee and something to eat.”

Seungcheol assumed a seat behind the kitchen island, nursing a glass of mineral water that was swift to be emptied and watching Jeonghan intently. The long-haired man snatched a few items from the fridge, kicked it shut, and switched the microwave on. As he heated something Seungcheol could not see, his fingers deftly circled a hair tie behind his head to keep his blonde locks in a ponytail.

It was a pleasantly commonplace yet oddly fearful sight, the way Jeonghan blended in. He seemed natural here. He seemed like he belonged. Seungcheol did not want to say it aloud, but the fact that Jeonghan knew where he stored his Styrofoam plates (all the way back in the bottom cabinet), knew how to stop the fastidious microwave without asking (slam it hard twice on its left side while it was still connected to the electrical outlet), knew how Seungcheol liked his coffee (cappuccino with Baileys thrown in), just proved that Jeonghan was not only imprinting his marks in Seungcheol’s life, but also the other way around. There was not an ounce of glamorous recording artist in how Jeonghan carried himself around the kitchen or a speck of a celebrity gone haywire by driving drunk or smoking weed; now it was just Yoon Jeonghan, plain and fatigued, shining and energetic, serving Seungcheol a plate of heated hot dog and a mug of warm coffee.

“Enjoy your meal, sir,” Jeonghan comically said with a wide smile.

Seungcheol hid his worry with a similar smile, biting into his hot dog. “Thanks. You think I’d be full after a whole night at a five-star restaurant.”

“Well, you did work hard today,” Jeonghan noted, his lips transforming to a small pout as he took a seat on the opposite side of the island. “Just consider this a reward.”

Seungcheol replied with a nod, and before Jeonghan could steer the conversation to repainting the bathroom walls in anything but yellow or whether disheveled, post- Mingyu and Wonwoo would crash their breakfast session a few hours later, he said, “So, you’re staying?”

“Mm-hm,” Jeonghan confirmed. He twitched a brow upwards and his cheeks in, something Seungcheol had never seen him did. “Do you mind?”

“Nope,” Seungcheol answered, a little too quickly. Do I?

“Oh, good then.” He gave a forceful nod before spluttering his thoughts. “I mean, I just reckoned that since you haven’t said anything about me being a bother, I figured—”

“You’re never a bother.” The words ran out of Seungcheol’s mouth before he could catch up with them.

Jeonghan made an exaggerated scoff, albeit his cheeks tinged with pink. “Please, I’ve been crashing on your couch for nearly two weeks, I’ve hijacked your fridge, your son sometimes prefers me tucking him into bed—it’s amazing you haven’t exploded with rage.”

A halfhearted smile took over Seungcheol’s lips. “It is. But I’m a strong person. Sort of.”

“Strong?” Jeonghan repeated with a sneaky twinkle in his eyes—in an instant, Seungcheol groaned. It only took a quick, deep breath and a series of repressed chuckles for Jeonghan to animatedly remind him of an infamous incident at the vintage shop just days prior: of him crushing under the weight of cardboard boxes filled with hardback novels and wobbling down the stairs in fluidly inelegant motion, with the boxes flinging through the air and meeting him at the bottom of the steps, landing straight on both of his awkwardly twisted knees. Jeonghan hadn’t had so much as spared a piteous glance at him or ushered the shocked, watching customers away from the scene—he had bent down and guffawed the daylights out of himself for four minutes before making his way over and kicking the nearly unconscious Seungcheol on the hips.

“Knock it off,” the black-haired man grumbled as Jeonghan slapped a hand on his face to prevent himself from laughing further.

“I’m just—it’s just—strong—I—!”

Jeonghan ducked his head down until his golden locks were the only thing visible against the backdrop of the whitewashed kitchen. Twitching a brow, Seungcheol automatically got to his feet and shuffled around the island.

“Jeonghan?”

The said man shook his head multiple times, brandishing his hand violently at Seungcheol, who only stepped closer because of it. His voice was moderately muted when he spoke an almost indiscernible, “Go away!”

“That’s code for stay, actually,” Seungcheol said with a scrunched nose. He detected the smell before his eyes could register it: blood, actual blood, rushing out of Jeonghan’s clasped mouth and coloring the inside of his palm crimson.

“Jeonghan! What the—”

“Iz fain,” Jeonghan half-shrieked through his hand, jumping to his feet as to not get blood splattered over the marble island. “Iz fain.”

Immediate action was needed, and Seungcheol could not be more thankful at that time that he was perfectly trained in the fields of handling brutally scraped knees, paper-cut wounds, and occasional nosebleeds. Having your mouth flowing with blood was different, though—something neither he nor Chan had ever experienced—but he knew the basic drill all too well and seeing the liquid did not make him falter one bit. Jeonghan was a separate case: He cringed maniacally once he saw the blood spat out of his mouth, his now-white knuckles clutching the edge of the dishwashing sink for dear life. Seungcheol passed him glass after glass of water to wash his mouth clean. When the long-haired man staggered back to his seat, Seungcheol coaxed him into opening his mouth for him to see the damage.

“It’s all chewed and swollen,” he announced, grimacing. “Is this why you didn’t eat much earlier?”

Jeonghan wove seconds of intervals throughout his words, his jaw flexing uncomfortably as he spoke. “Yes. But. It’s never been this. Bad before. Must’ve. Popped a vein.”

“Never been this bad?” Seungcheol peered at him in suspicion. “How long have you been doing it?”

Jeonghan seemed to rack his brain while his fingers fidgeted in his lap. “Years, probably.”

“How come I never know?”

“I only do it. When anxious,” he replied with a sigh. “Never have done. It here. I mean, when I’m with you. And Chan. I’m never. Anxious here.” His face was filled with such a timid, hesitant look Seungcheol could not help but to feel slightly guilty. “I’m… always happy. Here.”

Jeonghan exhaled a breath, and by the upturn of his smile, Seungcheol knew that the words were truthful. Happy. Happy. Jeonghan was finally, utterly happy. Seungcheol’s shoulders slumped as his mind raced faster than his heart. He should be glad for him, shouldn’t he? It was Jeonghan’s ultimate goal after all: to leave the cruelty and gruesomeness of the whole music enterprise and find something worth hanging on for. Who knew an A-list celebrity could encounter it in a Rio de Janeiro apartment housing a musically hyper eight-year-old and a dad who made a fortune out of vintage apparatus and mixed liquor? No one’s guess, certainly.

But he wasn’t. He wasn’t glad at all, and the sight of Jeonghan dipping his head down to hide the blooming smile on his lips as realization struck him, them, both of them, was not soothing. Rather, it provoked absolute fear instead of heightened joy.

Fear of what, he didn’t know.

“I think I haven’t thanked you enough.”

Jeonghan’s voice returned him to the now, and Seungcheol blinked once he felt the former tapping a hand to his wrist, his smile bright and buoyant. “So, thank you. For helping me and letting me stay and not being a total bastard about it.”

“Y-Yeah, it’s fine,” Seungcheol choked, swallowing the lump in his throat. His tone sounded harsher than he intended it to be, so he presented the long-haired man with a smile that bordered on the lines of apologetic and doubtful. Jeonghan’s lips twisted into a ridiculously broad grin in return. Fool. Don’t encourage him.

“I have to go,” he declared and inched away from Jeonghan so purposely fast the latter startled. Seungcheol emitted an unnecessary cough and tried not to bolt towards the doorway. “I have to go. Sleep time.”

Jeonghan gave him an incredulous look. “Is it something I—?”

Seungcheol shook his head. “No! No. God, no. It’s just—” His back hit the wall and he did not bother to mask his wince. Just ing leave. “I just—I’m not myself tonight.”

“Not yourself? Tonight?” repeated Jeonghan dumbly, his hand still poised in the air where Seungcheol’s wrist had been.

“Yes, perhaps, I don’t know.” They were whispers, unplanned whispers, and the memories of him stealing a pen from the receptionist and endlessly fusing questions of whether Jeonghan wanted to eat or not throughout the night and patting Jeonghan’s back for support as he vomited red blood all over swirled through his mind. Mistakes. “Maybe the entire night.”

Jeonghan looked stunned.

Seungcheol could barely hear his own words afterward. “I’ll go to bed now. Talk to you later.”

But both of his feet were already out of the kitchen.

 

---

 

“Here. Here. Isn’t it here? Oh, fu—did we miss it?”

“I’m in the middle of something here!”

Jeonghan groaned in exasperation and averted his eyes from Chan. A quick glance at his phone revealed that they were forty-three minutes late for practice and that he had a highly daunting prospect of being pestered by Chan’s instructors. (Not that it would be Kwon Soonyoung, because that guy was so relaxed about every single tidbit Jeonghan often assumed he was high on something.) Recalling the powdered faces and the fancy updos were a much more difficult task than he had expected—the mimosa was changing from a rebellious, before-noon action to a regrettable, hangover-inducing decision. He swiped through his messages out of frustration. No new ones. Why were there none?

“I’m done!” Chan exclaimed as he proudly stretched his upper body, which was now clad in the signature dance jacket he now wore on a daily basis.

“You’re wearing it backwards,” Jeonghan pointed out blankly, rolling his eyes.

Chan ducked his head down and huffed. “Oh, .”

“Chan!”

“I’m sorry! I heard Mingyu hyung saying it earlier!”

Jeonghan automatically scoffed. “Everything Mingyu says is bull—nonsense, so don’t copy it. And he’s not worthy enough to be called hyung.”

“But”—Chan threw him a confused look as he wiggled out of his jacket—“you told me not to call you hyung.”

“That’s different,” the long-haired man stated in a firm tone. “I was never used to being called that, and I don’t want to change it now.”

Chan furrowed his brows. “Why not?”

“Just because.” Just because I might get used to it if you call me that, so it will save a lot of painful remembrances when I leave you and your dad for good and back into the sophisticated, stressful hell that is the music industry.

Your dad.

Jeonghan clutched his hand tighter on the subway handle. .

“Just because what?” the kid pried, squinting his eyes in a manner that was both accusing and cute to Jeonghan.

“You don’t ever need to explain ‘just because.’” Jeonghan casually shrugged, trying to brush away the hurt that came with the recollection of the dawn a few hours prior. “That’s the norm.”

Chan jutted out his lips into a pout after he managed to don the jacket suitably. It deepened to a frown when he caught sight of his own colorful jacket and Jeonghan furrowed his brows in confusion. “What’s wrong, pal?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, absently yanking a loose fabric of his cloth. “I just wish Daddy could drop me off like he used to. You’re great, though, it’s just…”

“It’s just not the same,” Jeonghan concluded.

Directly on cue, the train screeched to a halt, and the two piled out amidst the mob of commuters to the equally crowded platform. The Metro station was up and about at one o’clock, and soon Jeonghan found himself knee-deep in tourists adorning sporty snapbacks and creased maps and outrageous tans; gentlemen in pressed, sweaty dress shirts and blazers shouting to their high-tech mobiles; and vibrantly clad females traveling in groups, chattering in fractious tones while sweeping frizzy hair out of their faces. Even the vibrant bundle that was Chan failed at guiding him out of the station through the enormous swarm of people—something Jeonghan already terribly lacked in even without an eight-year-old citizen screaming “Turn left! Right! Escalator up ahead!” in his own urgent manner.

Miraculously, they emerged out of the station without Jeonghan cracking any of his bones or needing intensive CPR. The white-and-gold studio rose into view two blocks after, and only when he had sent Chan off to the practice room and processed the unsolicited and expected snarls of the female instructors (“He was never late when that Wonu guy dropped him off!”) did he let himself stop and calm down. The remains of a hangover and the torrent of exhaustion wrecked him in an instant. He wanted nothing but to go to his happy place on the waiting room couch and watch TV under the air conditioner, but the sideways glare of the receptionist was worth a retreat outside.

The pavements were sunbaked and the heat was smoldering, but that did not hinder Jeonghan to cruise along the street for a new, Brazilian street snack while turning his non-ringing phone in his hand. Nevertheless, his exhaustion took all of his attention by force, and he settled down on the concrete next to a vendor standing idly by a rickety portable cart full of coxinha. The simple act cost him R$4 and a deprecating scowl from the elder man—who did a good job at mimicking his demand of buying a plate of coxinha—just for trespassing his area of sell.

The creamy snack was definitely a consoling treat after the flavorless breakfast he had this morning, which had been nothing short of distressing. Jeonghan had long been anticipating today’s routinely breakfast session since he was going to whip up his marvelous signature dish of fish and chips with a twist (his extended stopover was to be paid by breakfast duty for three times a week) that would drop jaws and elicit praises, but what happened was exactly otherwise.

He was completely silent every time Seungcheol, who seemed to think that nothing occurred in the few hours prior, attempted to initiate a conversation. He was kind enough to let a scowl or a grunt appear, though. Even Mingyu and Wonwoo’s attendance (disheveled and post-, as predicted) did not seem to smooth things over. Poor Chan had to spend his time munching Jeonghan’s bland fish and dry chips (no twist—his lifelong cooking motto was my food depends on my mood) to Seungcheol’s awkward chitchat starters, Wonwoo’s overly enthusiastic yet heavily futile catcalls, Mingyu’s passive-aggressive comments on the interior design, and Jeonghan’s deathly glare whenever someone dared to look at him in the eye.

Before he left for school, Chan shot the long-haired man a desperate look and tipped his chin to Seungcheol, tacitly suggesting them to solve whatever problem and tension they had. Jeonghan busied himself at seven A.M. by abandoning Chan’s silent plea along with his duties at Seungcheol’s vintage shop and tailed Mingyu downtown to Seokmin’s apartment. After receiving half an hour of the producer’s anger-venting without a single word of complaint, Jeonghan rewarded himself with two overfilled glasses of wine and a highball of mimosa, all before the clock read eleven in the morning.

Pounding headache and an exceeding wave of nausea rolled around an hour later. They kept him kneeling before Seokmin’s toilet bowl with multiple rounds of vomiting and a ubiquity of disarrayed thoughts, and were the main culprit of him being late to pick up Chan at his school. They spent the next excruciating minutes chasing trains and slithering down escalator rails and nudging commuters out of the way, which successfully produced Jeonghan’s triple-throbbing headache and a tsunami of nausea. They were temporarily (and blissfully) blinded by his rush and tiredness during his and Chan’s Metro episode, but now they gained Jeonghan’s sole focus.

It was no longer sole when he drew his phone from his pocket with his free hand and aimlessly scrolled through the list of messages. Why were there none? Why were there none? Why were there none from him?

“Tough day?”

Jeonghan recognized the light, raspy voice that could only belong to Kwon Soonyoung. Grudgingly, he lifted his eyes from his phone, trying to ignore the haziness that clouded his vision. Soonyoung was looming before him, wearing his grin normally broad and his wardrobe strangely immaculate. For someone who was always donned in a set of either black tee and vibrant pants or black pants and vibrant tee, Jeonghan regarded this as a miracle.

“What are you doing here?” he automatically asked in his now-common low tone. “Aren’t you supposed to be coaching Chan and the crew?”

“I had an appointment earlier, so no.” Soonyoung motioned his hand on the dress shirt and blue blazer getup he was in and his face suddenly turned into a surprising shade of pink. “Actually, it wasn’t an appointment, but I—I have no other word for it.”

Jeonghan arched a brow, but Soonyoung pretended not to notice. He plummeted next to Jeonghan and bought an obligatory paper plate of coxinha with a talkative spade of Portuguese words, which made Jeonghan convinced that the vendor was considerably nicer to him because of his brazen lack of puzzled expressions and doubtful stammers.

Gobbling down three coxinha at once, Soonyoung unabashedly studied the long-haired man with his brown orbs. Jeonghan’s coxinha-gripping hand froze in midair. He anticipated something along the lines of “I’ve been secretly aware that you’re a world-class singer—no need for the hideous glasses” or “Omitting the homeless hoodie, you’re a carbon copy of that Madman guy!” but Soonyoung stated, “You look like .”

A relieved and amused chuckle escaped Jeonghan’s lips. “I’ve been drinking.”

“Ah, tough night, then?” Soonyoung corrected himself, his brows raised in an expectant manner.

“No, still tough day.”

The dancer’s eyes widened instantly. “You just drank? At this hour?”

Jeonghan was instantly reminded of the ancient, frequent words he used to hear whenever he roamed strident nightclubs and exclusive parties in his A-list celebrity status: There are three things celebrities are undoubtedly attracted to: money, , and booze. He certainly had more than enough experience with the last two. While physical pleasure was out of the table due to his under-the-radar situation, he over-compensated it with a bountiful of booze to destroy his health and, quite possibly, sanity.

“Yeah,” he yawned. “And if you could recommend me one that would make me feel less ty, it would be helpful.”

“You drank too much, didn’t you?” Soonyoung laughed heartily. “I know a couple of foods, but usually I just wait it out. Nothing can make you feel better. Although I was just at this restaurant, this five-star thing tucked in in northern Rio, and—” He caught Jeonghan’s eye and a flushing red sprouted on his cheeks. “What?”

Jeonghan shrugged in a seemingly casual manner. “You practically laid that one out for me,” he spoke through a smile blooming on his lips. “So, do tell, why were you in a restaurant, dressed weirdly formal, and now blushing like a schoolgirl in love in just three seconds?”

Less than seven days was a span of time that did no justice to know all the tidbits and trivia that made up one loud, cheerful Kwon Soonyoung, but Jeonghan had been an expert in getting random people shoved in his face and deducing the overall image of them based only on the random facts that were in accompaniment. He and Soonyoung might saw and chatted with each other in a combined total of five hours since he started visiting Big Steps Little Steps, but Jeonghan knew that the choreographer would prefer to eat at a shabby local café than a Michelin-awarded European restaurant, to get his wardrobe from a 60% sale pop-up shop stationed near Copacabana Beach than anywhere on Armani or Hugo Boss’s second floor, and to be publicly humiliated (or praised?) in the than to utter a single word of adjective regarding his experiences in the love department. But another darker shade on Soonyoung’s cheeks shattered the paradigm, and Jeonghan mentally waved the humorous, confident, and relaxed Soonyoung goodbye as the latter took a deep breath.

“So, I met this guy,” he started, and already Jeonghan tut.

“Crucial mistake, my friend. Crucial mistake.” Said the one who deliberately clung himself to a handsome single dad for the sake of ‘protection.’

“I thought he was different!” Soonyoung groaned, raising a hand to run along his teal-colored hair. “God, that sounds even more cliché. Anyway, we met during a class, and I was instantly smitten. And you know me, I’m never easily smitten! It takes a highly choreographed routine for me to—alright, stop glaring at me. But—he was just—”

Soonyoung paused to exhale yet again and raised his gaze dreamily to the sky.

“He was so wonderful. Is, I guess, but I don’t know. He stood me up. I asked for a lunch together and he never showed up. Being the idiot in love I was, I didn’t even think for asking his number.”

Jeonghan tapped his fingers along the surface of his now-empty plate and scoffed. “Stupid.”

The word earned him a shove on the shoulder and Soonyoung’s alarming glare. “Like you’re the ultimate love expert, geez.”

“I’m not,” Jeonghan confirmed, “but I did sleep around a lot. That included a couple of innocent dates, too. Pre-.”

Soonyoung arched an eyebrow. “And post-?”

“Never took a second glance at their number after I added it to my contacts list.” He managed a laugh, but it sounded hollow to his own ears. “Unless they were really good, which they weren’t.”

An amused chuckle pushed past Soonyoung’s lips, and when it died down, he roamed his intrigue-tinted eyes all over Jeonghan’s hooded figure again. Jeonghan stared back, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What?”

“You just slept around, then? Never had a serious relationship?”

Surprise caught Jeonghan, but he expertly masked it with indifference. “Is that an offer, Soonyoung? Because from what I’ve gathered, you want to go walk down the aisle with another guy whose number you don’t even know.”

Soonyoung let out another crispy chuckle. “Whoa, you got me. I’ve got the catering settled, and the ceremony will be by the marvelous seashore of Ipanema.” He gave a playful wink and got to his feet. “Stay here. I’m gonna look for something to sober you up.”

Fifteen minutes flowed by and before he knew it Jeonghan had a plastic plate of soggy sunny side-ups in his hand, which looked as unappetizing as the sloshing water in the gutter below him. Soonyoung overlooked his deliberate, dismayed snort by nursing a soda can in his left palm and a small bag of lemon drops in his right. He consumed each of them in a steadfast pace: a sip, a drop, and unremitting babbles in between.

“He’s pretty cute. The way he smiles just—it just stops my heart! He greets me good morning, too. Do people ever say that nowadays? It’s always hi, hello, what’s up. But good morning is a simple act of affection. Of care. Wait—does that mean he cares about me? Oh, oh—you won’t believe this—he literally—”

Jeonghan exhaled purposely loud. He was sure it was fate that constructed him to be hemmed in by unstoppable chatterboxes, but at least Soonyoung had the decency to evaluate his mistakes and respect the listener instead of berating them like Mingyu did.

“Hey, sorry, I lost control there—, I fell hard, didn’t I?” Soonyoung grimaced in exaggeration, which Jeonghan welcomed with a half-tolerating smile.

“No, it’s okay,” he brushed it off. “I… understand.” He did not.

Soonyoung scoffed as he took another sip of his soda. “Tell that to your past self of five seconds that was looking pretty much annoyed.”

Jeonghan gave a small, unconvinced shrug. He knew well he was never interested in other people’s problems—he had enough of his own—but being in the first stages of falling in love (or maniacal obsession?) fell into the category of Understandable. Being more responsive should have been an appropriate reaction, even from him, should it not? And Soonyoung was kindhearted. Jeonghan stole a swift glance at the eggs on his plate, which seemed to melt into an inedible mush just by contact with the beams of the January sun. Seungcheol, positioned behind the kitchen island, flipping pancakes with the ease of a skilled chef and a bright, bright smile worthy of swooning four thousand people—the image flooded his mind so suddenly he was more scared than surprised.

“I’m sorry,” Jeonghan mustered, his voice entirely inconspicuous but not overly apologetic. “I just—have a lot in my mind lately. I can’t take any more.”

Soonyoung cast a proper gaze at him, not bothering to hide his curiosity. A sip, a drop, a question.

“Then should I give you a favor by shutting up and listening to your story instead?”

Jeonghan’s fingers nearly permitted the plate to slip away and land on the concrete road. “What?” he responded, too taken aback to adopt his signature low voice. His words were shivering, he noticed. Whether with fear of being identified, or fear of his feelings being identified—he could not fathom it. He bravely took a peek of Soonyoung through the corner of his eye, who seemed more amused than surprised. “What?”

“Come on!” the dancer pushed, giving Jeonghan’s still arm a playful nudge. “I’ve known you for weeks and the only things I know about you came from Chan’s mouth. I want to see you talk, for a change.”

The remorseful words—and the remorseful way Soonyoung spoke of them—flew out of his lips and reached Jeonghan’s ears, but not very much his brain. Talk? Talk? I always talk. Talk, talk, talk, talking.

“I’m talking,” Jeonghan whispered. Robotically, he set the half-eaten plate of eggs on the patch of ground next to him. Cold descended onto him, into him, reaching the deepest part of his bones, igniting the trembling of his fingers and the irregular beating of his heart. He gulped some saliva, but his throat remained enveloped with dryness.

“You know what I meant,” Soonyoung said, spilling four drops of lemon into his palm. He was seemingly unaffected of Jeonghan’s change of condition in any way—either that, or he was terrifically oblivious. However, Jeonghan detected the heave of his shoulders, as if the every word said were a marvelous weight to relieve, and the small scrunch of his nose, as if every word said had been sitting on the back of his mind, a dusty compartment in a dusty drawer, in need of some effort to be yanked open. “Your story. I’d be happy to give you mine, but honestly speaking, everyone’s been curious about you, and maybe I will be the lucky one to uncover all your nasty secrets.”

Nasty secrets. My, have I got lots. “There are no nasty secrets hidden, Soonyoung,” Jeonghan answered after inhaling deeply. The intake of hot air did nothing to rid him of the vexatious cold that was spreading to every inch of his body, though his voice became significantly low and steady, just like old times. “I’m just an under-the-radar kind of guy.”

“So you’re avoiding something?” Soonyoung expertly concluded, twisting his body in Jeonghan’s direction and stretching his leg along the sidewalk.

A desperate groan escaped Jeonghan’s lips. He bumped his legs together and bent his neck downward, his forehead rubbing against the material of his ripped jeans. It was torture. “Change the subject.”

Soonyoung forced a chuckle, but they both were tacitly aware that all trace of amusement had departed from him. “Alright.” A stretch of silence bleeded through. Jeonghan sensed the teal-haired man was carefully choosing his words, organizing them in a line and firing them when ready. He was ready.

“Are you missing someone?”

Jeonghan’s whole body stiffened. “W-What?”

“Have you not noticed I noticed you checking your phone all the time?” He let out a loud sigh of frustration. “Chan’s safe and sound in the studio.”

Jeonghan parted his lips for an answer, but no words rolled out. They were frazzled, terrified. He was terrified. He became incredibly conscious of his phone, now saved in his pocket, a slice of technology that connected him to everyone else in the world. Everyone but him. Why was he not responding?

Jeonghan struggled. “What if I was—I was—impatiently waiting for an online clothes order?” The words sounded pathetic even in his own ears.

Soonyoung gave him a stare as if he were an adult unaware of how to comb hair with his fingers. “Your wardrobe remains the same for weeks.”

Jeonghan managed a scoff. “Speak for yourself.”

“Come on! We’re sort of friends, aren’t we?” The dancer had returned to his usual sonorous self in a matter of nanoseconds, shaking Jeonghan’s shoulders until he almost lost his balance and tumbled down on the soggy eggs. “What’s the guy like? Handsome? Dashing? Charming? From the scale of one to ten, what are we talking about here?”

Jeonghan emitted a breathless laugh. The excitement Soonyoung emanated was capable of expelling the disturbing cold that had briefly lived inside him, although he was certain it will return sooner or later. For the moment, he permitted himself to be swallowed by his own thoughts, of flashes containing Seungcheol’s face, Seungcheol’s hair, Seungcheol’s fingers, Seungcheol’s smile.

“Ten. An absolute ten. I’d go for eleven, but his wakeup look is just nasty.”

“Wakeup look?” laughed Soonyoung. “What is he, your roommate? But I thought you were living with Chan and his—” A noisy, dramatic gasp erupted from his throat, cutting his words short. Jeonghan immediately snapped his head up, a brow poised upwards in question, while a look of horror was engraved in Soonyoung’s orbs.

“What? Soonyoung, I—”

“OH MY GOD, .”

Soonyoung screamed in a combination of dread and disgust as he instantly got to his feet. He aimed an accusing finger at Jeonghan and whispered, his repeated words coated in fright. “, , , !”

“Oh my God,” Jeonghan huffed, scrambling to stand up only to no avail. “Soonyoung, it isn’t—”

“I’ve been living in Brazil for a long time, and it’s safe to say that is ing illegal. Basically it’s illegal everywhere! I’m—can you believe this?!” Soonyoung shouted to the coxinha vendor, his arms flying erratically in the air around him. His words transformed into the language Jeonghan was blind of, though he knew perfectly well what the meaning was behind those foreign words. He watched in desperation as the vendor emitted a similar gasp, pointing at Jeonghan with his rusty spatula, his thunderous voice booming from the bottom of his throat.

“Please—settle down!” A desperate plea came out of Jeonghan’s lips as the vendor spat out more Portuguese phrases. His feet shifted awkwardly on the rocky ground, but at last he managed to stand. He tossed an alarmed glare at Soonyoung, who moved his hands in frantic waves across the air, words tumbling out of his mouth in rapid succession. “Soonyoung, settle down! It’s not ing !”

The dancer finally gave Jeonghan the pleasure of receiving his gaze, his eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. “Then what is it? There’s no other explanation—”

“There is,” Jeonghan cut off and took a deep breath. “I’m not Chan’s uncle.”

Soonyoung blinked and parted his lips to retaliate, but the vendor almost swung his spatula across Jeonghan’s cheek. Being the quick wit he was, he uttered a few calming lexemes that coaxed the vendor to station himself back on the side of his cart, though he sent Jeonghan looks of blended accusation and curiosity between the seconds. Jeonghan only gulped, his attention fractured when Soonyoung piped up, “Then—who are you?”

Why, I am a ed-up singer who’s been decorating the tabloids oh so humbly. “His… friend. I’m his dad’s friend.”

A crease adorned Soonyoung’s brows in an instant. “But why do you have to pretend that you’re his uncle?”

“It’s…” Jeonghan dipped his head down and searched his stained, grubby sneakers for answers. They were caked with flecks of dirt and strips of platinum. He could not find an answer, not even one. Or perhaps he was just looking in the wrong place. “It’s… easier.”

“Easier how?”

Jeonghan let out a breath of frustration along with all of his control. “Change the subject. Please.”

Soonyoung chewed on his bottom lip and, as if things had fallen into normalcy, withdrew a lemon drop to on. Jeonghan could sense him contemplating, and before he knew it his teeth grazed against the insides of his cheeks, still raw and tense after a dawn of oozing blood. Seungcheol ran into his mind almost immediately, filling and clouding and charming. Charming as ever.

“How long have you had the hots for Chan’s dad?”

The singer flinched, his single thought disrupted at once. “Soonyoung! I don’t have any hots for him.”

“Tell that to your past—how many weeks?” He unexpectedly chuckled, swallowing a lemon drop and taking out another one. “Three? Five?”

“Shut up. He’s just—he’s just there, you know?” He slumped back down on the pavement, his legs stretched out and the tip of his sneakers stabbing the rays of light. The words were jammed in his throat, yet the thoughts were swarming his mind and the warmth bubbled in his chest, consuming him ever so ferociously. “It’s nice being around him. I don’t know much about likes or love or relationship, but I thought we were somewhere there.”

“Thought?” repeated Soonyoung, eliminating the distance between them by taking a seat next to him again. His voice was coated with pure inquisitiveness instead of blatant indictment, something Jeonghan highly valued.

“He told me that he made a mistake about an entire night we spent together.” His teeth gradually delved into the walls of his mouth, and the pain was both numbing and excruciating. “I mean, we spent it with others too, but—I think he was just referring to me. To the part of the night when I was there.”

Soonyoung’s hand clasped onto Jeonghan’s shoulder. “So?”

“So?” he emitted a bitter snort and closed his eyes. “I thought that night was really special. But then he said it. And I’ve been in a foul mood since this morning.”

“Whoa.” He could hear Soonyoung rolling the drop on his tongue, Soonyoung’s fingers his shoulder in an attempt to soothe and salvage. “Whoa. So, what’s that got to do with the phone?”

“We always chat every time I drop Chan off and wait for him. Just talking. And now I’m wondering why he hasn’t.” The words seemed to just slip out of him now. They were not being yanked by force or drove into the open by his need for formality. They were the truth, bearing the weight of his heart and his restlessness and his turmoil. And Jeonghan was relieved.

“Have you sent a message?” asked Soonyoung, finally plummeting the drop to his throat.

Jeonghan nodded vigorously. “Yeah, I always do that. I’ve always been the one initiating—oh.”

His face fell, as did Soonyoung’s. The first thing he realized was that he should have realized it sooner. His fingers quivered as they dug into his pocket and extracted his phone, the screen black and empty. Seungcheol might have sent a few starters every now and then, but never too often. It was always Jeonghan, Jeonghan, Jeonghan. Eager thumbs swiping across the keyboard, an anticipating smile dragging his lips as he waited for a reply.

“Damn.” Soonyoung carded his fingers through his hair and peered seriously at the phone in Jeonghan’s hand, his expression altering into excitement. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like you back! Maybe he’s just confused. People are all like that all the time.”

How desperately did Jeonghan want to believe him, to clench on Soonyoung’s every word and hang onto them for the remaining time. But he could not stomach another lie. “Believe me, getting no message is also a message,” he muttered.

“Come on, don’t be that desperate!” Soonyoung clapped Jeonghan’s shoulder and withdrew his hand just as quick as it had hit, only to poise it on his chin as he swam in remembrance. “Hm, let me think… Chan’s dad. Yeah, I remember him. He looked pretty good. I saw him, what, a year ago? After Chan’s audition?”

 “Yeah?”

“He was pretty distraught. Didn’t talk to him after Chan finished.”

Jeonghan gave another nod. Suddenly, he was transported into a smoldering beachfront café, staring Chan and his confessions right in the eyes as the boy shook and cried and talked. “Oh.”

Soonyoung shrugged and curled the now-empty plastic bag of drops into a ball, as if he had just said his final words. “If I were him, I wouldn’t, too.”

“Mhm.” Jeonghan turned his phone in his hands, the image of Chan stuttering and streaks of dried tears running down his cheeks and an abandoned spoon lying on the floor fluttering behind his eyelids. “They’re not that happy together.”

Soonyoung turned to the side. “And with you around?”

The singer hesitated. The phone stopped its movement between his fingers, and the lingering breaths in his lungs were caught up in his throat.

“Chan said they both are. With me around.”                                                           

“Maybe you’re just what they need to pull through,” Soonyoung suggested. “But do you want to do that?”

Jeonghan threw him a doubtful look, finally managing to exhale long and deep. “Do what?”

“Make them pull through?” Soonyoung raised a brow. “Bring them to some sort of realization and make amends?”

Swells of pain began to shoot through his cheeks and jaw and neck, originating from the torn flesh of his mouth. Blood sheeted his tongue tightly like honey, tying it in place and locking the words—however scrambled they may be—far away down his throat. He pondered for long moments, traveling his eyes to the passersby milling their way through the vociferous street laden with kiosks and sunlight, to the swinging door of the dance studio as toddlers dashed their way out in sweat-soaked tees and catsuits, to strategically dispersed tabebuia trees swaying mildly in the warm summer breeze.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly. Even from his spot, he could sense a smile taking over Soonyoung’s lips. “I’d sacrifice my life and limb to make them happy.”

Soonyoung suddenly laughed. “Whoa, them?”

Jeonghan caught himself and straightened his spine. “Chan!” he hollered, collecting a dirty look from the coxinha vendor. “Chan! To make Chan happy!”

The dancer only laughed louder and shook his head in amusement. “There’s no point in denying it any longer,” he told as he arched a brow knowingly. “You’re in pretty deep.”

Jeonghan’s body sagged and he gathered his knees to his chest, a solemn look etched on his face. “In just two weeks.”

“Some had it worse, like me.” Another chortle escaped Soonyoung. “First sight. But seriously, he treats Chan good, right?”

Jeonghan scrunched up his nose. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, it’s just—” Soonyoung halted his talk, and Jeonghan reckoned he could not figure out the words fit for the job of description. It was one of the things he contracted lately, especially when Seungcheol was around. He attempted not to rush the teal-haired man as he pursed his lips in thought. After a deep, decisive sigh, then he resumed.

“Alright, I’ll just go with this. I used to know a guy from the slums. We were in the same school together. He got beaten up by his mom who was on drugs and got depressed and all that . They weren’t exactly a joyful bunch. In the end, this guy turned out to be some really ed up drug dealer. But it wasn’t his fault that he turned out that way, was it? He didn’t do anything wrong. It was—”

“The mom’s fault,” Jeonghan intercepted. Cognizance swept him the minute he said those words, resurrecting a smile on his face and a surge of hope in his chest. He faced Soonyoung, his lips turning more gleeful with every confused blink Soonyoung gave.

“Did I say something…? I mean, my point is, Chan might be unhappy—”

“Thank you for the insight.” Jeonghan rose his hands to pat Soonyoung’s cheeks heartily, his smile impossibly wider. “Thank you.”

Soonyoung’s brows knitted together in a perplexed line, his head unconsciously nodding. “You’re welcome? So.” He abruptly shook his head, sending Jeonghan’s palms back to his sides, a certain mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Have you got in his pants? I’m just assuming from the wakeup look here.”

The soggy eggs ended up dribbling down from Soonyoung’s cheeks instead of sitting on a sun-kissed plate, shriveling and uneaten. A hearty laugh from Jeonghan greeted the dancer’s appalled look written on his face. It was nice to laugh. He had not laughed in a long time, and it was perfectly good to revel in the jubilance of a moment, before he face the questions that had been lurking in the corners of his mind and the subsequent, unforeseeable reception from a certain father obsessed with rock and roll.

 

---

 

He didn’t want to go there.

Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf. The piece of 1968 classic reverberated from two-year-old earphones, its throaty croons and passionate slams of the drum fueling the rhythmic bobbing of Seungcheol’s head. He swiveled his hips to the beat as he rolled up his sleeves up to his upper arm and cracked the bones in his neck to the side. Two velvet cases were lined up along the wooden stairwell, each ingrained with Courtesy of Franca & Co. on the very bottom. Thinking that he had had enough of a two-hour morning drill, he heaved up both cases in each of his hand—which grappled and contracted at the surprising weight—and exited his shop.

He didn’t want to go there.

The walk to his apartment building across the street was no easy feat, considering it was already bustling in its 8 A.M. fashion. The cacophony of clangs of metal shop doors being drawn upwards and footfalls of a swarm of businessmen momentarily expunged John Kay’s voice in his ears. Silver cars and yellow taxis whizzed by in a carefree manner, ignoring Seungcheol’s frenzied wave as an effort to halt their courses for him to pass. He knew he would fail miserably and the tanned drivers would squawk in anger or flash him the finger, but those did not hinder him from spitting some Portuguese profanities in return.

He didn’t want to go there.

He was halfway up the stairs when his legs settled into a halt, automatically, mechanically. A film of sweat covered his quivering hands, snugly curled around the cases. He could not bear to see Jeonghan. He could not bear to be present in the situation they were trapped in, which was nothing but uncertain and disquieting and fearful. Doubt was an emotion he intensely despised, and anything that had a sliver of connection to Jeonghan made him second-guess himself.

But it was partly his fault, was it not? He was the one who permitted Jeonghan to extend his stay at his apartment. Anyone would have assumed that he was aware of all sorts of outcomes when he forged that decision. But he wasn’t. And now he had to ignore him and his abundant messages. He had to resort his focus to something else whenever Jeonghan, Jeonghan, Jeonghan appeared in his thoughts. It was both an easy and difficult feat to accomplish.

Seungcheol blew a hot, wheezing breath. He had to think straight. It was unfair to treat Jeonghan this way. He knew that, he knew that so well. But he could not bring himself to act any other way. This method was safer. Jeonghan had grown to be an integral component in his and Chan’s daily lives—it would not last long. It was not logical to allow Jeonghan inside more than he already had.

And so, Seungcheol determinedly hiked the steps until he reached his floor. His resolution faltered a bit when Jeonghan’s laughter fled from the partly ajar door of his apartment. Jeonghan was happy. He had been enormously happy for at least two hours, as if the kitchen episode between them had not occurred. But it did, and Jeonghan was no longer his usual, easygoing self around Seungcheol. Things were exactly wobbly between them, and so far Seungcheol was succeeding in taking matters into his own hands inadequately and pathetically.

Gulping, he pushed the door wider with his back and let himself in. The sitting room was a worthy competitor to the commotion below: three black-clad movers were loudly directing each other on how to set a keyboard near the glass wall; a bald instrument expert with beady eyes behind green-rimmed glasses was inspecting three different types of flutes by blowing on it with all his might; and Chan was furiously smacking his hands on a wooden cajón he was sitting atop of, laughing heartily as he did.

“Everything is all checked out, all we’re missing are—my guitar! My bass!”

Seungcheol’s gaze followed the source of voice. Jeonghan was standing at the top of the glass staircase, dressed in a T-shirt a size too big that had no drop of sweat permeating through it, while his nape and forehead sported abundance. His long blonde locks were clustered in a messy ponytail, loose strands extending here and there. A scrap of yellow paper was within his grasp, which Seungcheol noticed he had been consulting to all morning—it was perhaps a list of all the instruments the singer had purchased the other day and were due to be delivered today.

“I thought they were all guitars,” Seungcheol piped up, a sheepish smile easing its way to his lips.

Jeonghan let out a chuckle, but Seungcheol had a feeling that it was not very much sincere. The former hoisted himself up the railing of the stairs and slid down with his arms resting comfortably in his lap, landing on the marble floor in an almost graceful hop. Only when he arrived on the ground floor Seungcheol realized he had been staring at him for far too long than necessary.

On the other hand, Jeonghan seemed to be dreadfully clueless. His smile was dim and tight around the edges as he held his hands out to Seungcheol. “Let me carry those. They’re mine, after all.”

“I can manage,” Seungcheol responded. He tightened his grip around the cases and swallowed his accumulating frustration when Jeonghan launched his own hands to pry the cases off.

“Seungcheol,” Jeonghan grumbled. “What are you—”

“The least I could do is help,” he blurted out, almost apologetically.

Jeonghan brought his gaze up. Surprise, disbelief, confound. They flickered in his orbs and he withdrew his hands from the cases. Seungcheol stood there, motionless, breathless, before Jeonghan cracked the silence.

“Alright. Help me, then.”

Seungcheol blinked. Did he mean it literally, or did he allude to something else? Was it a plea to interpret the state they were in, or to help the movers who were balancing the keyboard dangerously on their booted feet while they sought for an electrical outlet? Before he could utter a question (if he had the valor to), Jeonghan was away, tapping the music expert on the shoulder and mimicking his request with his hands.

A sigh escaped his lips, and Seungcheol set the cases on the floor. Giving no attention to a singular voice on the back of his head (you’re screwed you’re ed you wimp things will never be the same with Jeonghan Jeonghan Yoon Jeonghan), he helped himself to a seat on the couch. It remained warm and dented and smelled of Jeonghan’s undoubtedly familiar scent, of combined mint and ink and a dab of ash, despite its being last occupied a few hours ago. Seungcheol purposefully switched his attention to his son, who was busy tapping and sliding and hitting his knuckles on the polished surface of the cajon, generating a loud tempo that was surprisingly neat and measured. Even with his earphones on, Seungcheol recognized the beat. He would anywhere.

“Daddy, turn it on!” Chan exclaimed over the slaps and raps of the wood, growing shriller by the second. “Turn the song on!”

Seungcheol obliged, unearthing his iPod from his pocket and detaching the earphones. A few seconds later, Freddie Mercury’s haunting voice thrived inside the space. Chan began emitting uneven yet heartfelt shrieks in accompaniment, and then every bit of his tormenting concern collapsed, evaporated, their absence filled by his best friend, his ball of joy, his son.

“Steve walks warily down the street, with the brim pulled way down low!” Chan hollered, increasingly battered wood and red knuckles clashing in blaring thumps. “Ain’t no sound but the sound of his feet, machine guns ready to go!”

Seungcheol let out a laugh and lowered the volume of the song, enabling Chan to sing (badly) and play (accurately) to his heart’s content. The walls rumbled with a story of a poisonous woman and bullets ripping through the doorway and the hat shrouding Steve’s vision. Not to his surprise, Chan rose from the cajon and danced the final words of the song, gliding through an imaginary threshold and aiming an invisible gun at the air, his feet swift and sweeping on the carpet as he flourished. A ninety-degree bow put a stop to the impromptu performance, and an ear-piercing round of applause erupted from everyone witnessing.

“He’s got real talent, I tell ya!” exclaimed one of the movers, and Jeonghan furrowed his brows in inapprehension.

“Thank you,” Chan responded, a bright grin tugging at his lips. He waddled towards Seungcheol immediately, who already had his arms outstretched and gathered the boy in a bone-crushing hug.

“That’s my boy,” Seungcheol whispered, and Chan’s grin became impossibly broader.

The footfalls of the movers and the music expert departing the apartment were heard at precisely ten twenty-eight. All musical instruments were properly arranged: the keyboard faced the panorama of a January-sizzled Rio, the guitar and bass guarded each side of the glass stairs, the flutes and a harmonica were resting on a section of the glass cases, bordered by The Beatles’ Revolver and Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde. Slumber took over Chan a few minutes after the delivery commotion was gone, and Seungcheol lay him in his Lightning McQueen bed with a good morning’s kiss. He was tempted to remain inside and watch over his son, but Jeonghan had not eaten anything and the least he could do was help.

“Does your back ache?” was the first query Jeonghan fired when Seungcheol went into the kitchen. He gave a small nod as he positioned himself behind the kitchen island.

“Yes, but it’s fine,” he replied. Everything that had demolished earlier—the dilemma, the horror, the ghastly prospects—was slowly building again. It was crawling its way through his veins and bleeding into his bones, intent on consuming him entirely.

“Nonsense. I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through,” Jeonghan said, his tense fingers clasped together.

“There’s no need to be sorry,” the black-haired man countered with a shaky voice. He opted for a simple menu and assembled a large tuna sandwich and a mug of steaming black coffee. Jeonghan’s brow was raised in shock when Seungcheol pushed the plate and coffee across the island.

“I didn’t ask for food.”

“You didn’t eat since morning,” reasoned Seungcheol, pulling a stool over and settling opposite him. “It’s your turn to help yourself.”

The incredulity was not erased from Jeonghan’s face as he munched through the sandwich. Seungcheol managed a victorious smile nonetheless and fixed himself a cup of cappuccino fused with a splash of Baileys. Only fast-paced chews and heavy sips tinged their brunch, along with curious glances thrown above marble. Seungcheol wondered if his worries were alive. They would be screaming right now if they were granted a voice, a high-pitched noise that would forever echo in his soul. His cup was empty in just three chugs, and he was about to get to his feet when Jeonghan whispered a desperate “Wait.”

Seungcheol was sure that his heart skipped a beat. He raised his gaze, and he could see the eagerness and agitation reflected in Jeonghan’s eyes. Quietly, he sunk back to his stool, waiting as the long-haired man a deep breath.

“Why didn’t you reply to my texts?” he questioned, so hushed Seungcheol almost did not catch it.

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. They were screaming inside his head, rocking his mind and wavering his core. “It just seemed simpler.”

“Simpler than what?”

“Than actually talking to you.”

Jeonghan flinched. “So is this hard for you to do?”

Seungcheol bit his lip. “Perhaps.”

A long sigh pushed out of Jeonghan’s lips. “Do you still think that night was a mistake?”

That surprised Seungcheol. He was propelled to that Castanho night right away: the chortles emanating from their lips, the soles of their feet coming in contact, the merriment they were washed in, and Jeonghan’s smile. Jeonghan’s awfully brilliant smile.

Seungcheol ducked his head down. No. He wasn’t supposed to think that way. Control yourself. His worries crushed him, the weight of his questions urging the sag of his shoulders and the shuddering of his fingers. Castanho shifted, morphed, transformed to a memory of Chan assuming a fetal-like position in the corner of his blue bedroom, hot tears cascading his cheeks and “Daddy, please don’t leave me” out of his lips. His chest hurt and wrenched and he promised to himself.

“I do,” he uttered, his words flying unsteadily in the air. He heard Jeonghan’s breath caught up in his throat, but he pushed on. “But it’s not the kind of mistake I regret.”

Jeonghan continued to be composed, but Seungcheol noticed a hint of a relieved smile tugging at his lips. “Alright,” he spoke in a soft tone. “I guess that’s enough for now.”

“For now?” Seungcheol repeated, curiosity seeping through his voice.

The smile finally bloomed, and he found himself smiling as well.

“For now, Seungcheol,” confirmed Jeonghan. “By the way, Chan’s making great progress in the dance crew.”

The change of subject caught him off guard. He blinked in surprise as Jeonghan seemed to harden, solidify, encased in newfound strength and determination. “Is that so?”

“It is. I hope you can take the time to hear about his audition last week.”

Seungcheol could not miss the fierce hope dancing behind all that steely façade. Jeonghan had mentioned it in passing for the last few days, but he had never invested too much focus in it. He was well aware of how Chan’s auditions tend to shape up to. A singular kind of nervousness blanketed him, joining all the restlessness that was too much to handle as it was.

“You already told me a few bits and pieces,” he evaded. “I know enough.”

“No, you don’t.” Jeonghan shook his head firmly. “Seungcheol, you have to know.”

The insistence coating his words pierced the layers in an instant. Seungcheol made a scowl, his eyes sharpening in blatant annoyance. “I can choose what I want to know and what I don’t want to know, Jeonghan,” he replied coldly.

Alarmed, Jeonghan shook his head again and added in haste. “It’s important. I wouldn’t say it if I knew it didn’t matter.”

“You spent enough time in that dance studio,” Seungcheol spat, rising to his feet. Anger had occupied the space where all his worries had left, and they were twice as intense when they flowed and grew inside him. “You know I have my reasons not to know.”

Any trace of fear or doubt had abandoned Jeonghan just as sudden once Seungcheol’s words were heard. He stood up from his seat as well, matching Seungcheol’s height as he voiced in disgust, “What, so you can protect yourself from all the pain? The pain of your own son?”

Seungcheol’s fingers balled into fist, their nails diving into the flesh of his palms. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he growled. “You aren’t in my shoes.”

“I may not be, but that doesn’t mean I’m all clueless about how it’s supposed to go,” Jeonghan barked, their eyes boring into each other. “You know what he did after he got in to that crew? He ing cried. I spent the last week with him in the dance studio and not a day went by without him begging for you to be there. I know you have your own issues, but can’t you just support your son and take care of him like a real father?”

In swift motion, Seungcheol circled around the island and his opened fist wrapped around the front of Jeonghan’s shirt, strangling his neck with the white fabric. His grip was strong and enraged and hateful, each shift of his fingers tearing the breath out of Jeonghan’s throat. The latter’s eyes bulged out in attempt to ease Seungcheol, but he did not move or loosen his hold.

“You don’t tell me how to do my job.” His whisper was drenched in threat, the words taken out of his lips mercilessly. “You don’t get to judge how much of a real father I am. I love Chan. Like you said, I have my own issues.”

Even in his current position, with Seungcheol’s infuriated fist nearly clapping open and claiming his throat, Jeonghan managed a degrading scoff. In truth, it surprised Seungcheol—this was a side of Jeonghan he had never laid his eyes on, yet every tabloid and newspaper he had ever come across always placed a warning somewhere of this erratic attitude. His fist only closed in, tighter, harder, the fabric of the white shirt cutting onto the skin of Jeonghan’s neck.

“You don’t know , Seungcheol,” the singer choked. “He dreams to be a dancer yet you only give verbal support. Be ing present for your son you so-called love.”

It was as if the power had been hidden inside him all along, swimming in the shadows and eluding the slants of light. Seungcheol’s hands cracked open and slammed Jeonghan’s neck to the nearby wall. It was wonderfully satisfying, to see Jeonghan suffocate and writhe and beg with his eyes, panicked eyes, as his ears welcomed Seungcheol’s deep, resonant words.

“You’re the one who doesn’t know , Yoon Jeonghan. Who was there when he fell from a swing? Who was there to teach him how to brush his teeth, how to shoot hoops, how to ing do his homework? Who was there to cure every wound from soccer? Who was there to hug him when he cried when he didn’t make it to the baseball team?” He shook Jeonghan’s neck, shoving him harder against the wall.

Jeonghan tried to shake his head, his words breathless and shivering. “S-Seung-cheo—”

“ME!” Seungcheol roared. “It was ing me! I was the one who was there when he got hurt. I was the one who was there when he got shot by the needle for the first time. I was there when he slipped on the stairs and brought him to the hospital. Me, Yoon Jeonghan. I was ing there for him. Not you, not Wonwoo, not anyone else but me. So don’t tell me to do the things I already know how to.”

His hand began to vibrate as the rage overwhelmed him. Seungcheol realized just now how much it hurt. Can’t you just support your son and take care of him like a real father? The pain spread through him, cutting every vein, every blood, destroying every bone. Be ing present for the son you so-called love. His teeth were clenched, his tongue trapped between, withholding the demeaning words that were sure would be hauled. Gradually, he released his fist from Jeonghan’s neck. The long-haired man gratefully parted his lips for long intakes of air, coughing and spitting and dropping to the floor.

“I was there, Jeonghan.” Seungcheol’s voice dropped to a cool whisper. “I was there for him. I knew I was late, but I tried my best. I’m trying my best to take care of my son.” The anger would not stop burning, its flames lapping and ravaging every ounce of goodwill tucked in his bones. “I’m not a god. I can’t do everything for him despite my strongest will.”

Chan entered his mind, his eyes snapped shut and his earsplitting cries exiting his mouth. Then there was Jihoon, yelling to him “You never take care of us enough” and swinging the door shut in his face with a loud bang. It switched back to Chan, dancing his pain on the floor of the studio, his expression contorted in all the morose and frustration Seungcheol had piled him with for months. His pain is mine.

Seungcheol tumbled to the floor, his head bumping against the marble structure of the kitchen island. It hurt, but he did not care. His heart was shriveling, its beating irregular against his ribcage as if demanding to be set free. His hands trembled, his eyes watered, and his words were never there on his tongue.

“I was there,” he wanted to say, amidst the flitting son and the existing pain and the disloyal, betraying words of Jeonghan swelling in his head. “I was there for my son. I am here for my son.”

“Seungcheol,” spoke Jeonghan, his red face and half-lidded eyes arriving into sight. He cupped Seungcheol’s warm cheeks with his palms, a sincere smile drawn on his lips. “I’m sorry.”

“I was there,” he wanted to say, but a whimper was heard instead. “I’m trying to be here for my son.”

Jeonghan’s palms extracted and it was his arms, his arms scooped him and drew him to his chest and Seungcheol could hear the rhythm, the heart pumping and beating and living. His eyes slowly closed as he bawled against Jeonghan, his lips escaping anything but concrete words.

“I’m sorry, Cheol, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all of that. My temper got the best of me. It seems like I went to my old self again. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m trying to be here for my son.”

“You’re trying your best. You have your issues but you struggle to be the best person for Chan. I’m sorry I didn’t see all of that in the first place. I’m sorry, Seungcheol. I’m so so sorry.”

“He’s my everything. I should have tried harder.”

“It’s my fault. You did nothing wrong. You’ve fought hard and you still continue to. I appreciate your efforts, Cheol. You’ve done a marvelous job. Chan is the best kid out there.”

Jeonghan’s voice haunted him, creeping inside his soul and staying in the deepest crevices, his words imprinting themselves on his mind and in his chest and in his full-on weeps. Jeonghan hugged him, swayed him, his arms with his palms and transferring the warmth and the faith into his fraying bones.

“You know, I learned something the other day. You’re a role model for Chan. You set everything in motion and he follows your lead. Whatever you do affects him, the same way whatever he does affect you.”

The tears never stopped, never would stop, flooding his cheeks and dropping down his chin, soaking the front of Jeonghan’s shirt. Seungcheol’s whole torso shook in his pain, his hand raised to his lips to prevent him from creating too much sound.

“Whatever you are feeling affects him, the same way whatever he feels affect you.”

Jeonghan’s touch was soothing, his fingers brushing against the skin of his arm, his palms patting Seungcheol’s sides. His voice was a faraway croon, a gentle revelation.

“Don’t you see, Seungcheol? In order for Chan to be happy, you need to be happy first. And not the other way around.”

 

---

 

“I had to tell the execs. I had to. I fielded their questions and calmed their asses down. I told them you’re still here, safe and sound. Needed some alone time. They didn’t buy it at first, but you know how persuasive I can be. They’re thinking of putting something out there to feed the hungry mouths—to keep the momentum going. The tour is technically over, but since you blew up your last stop of the leg, they want something big for your next comeback. Huge. Massive. Gigantic. I’m cracking open a thesaurus as we speak. Do you know about that psychological, Domino effect spread on Sonic? It’s bull. Don’t believe a ed-up word they say about you. You’re not a little traumatized kid looking for worldwide attention. The industry twists people and stories. I don’t need to tell you that twice.”

“I know, Mingyu, I know.”

“And I know I’m being a —a huge —where the is Wonwoo—hey, love!—so, Jeonghan, I’m being a monstrously huge , but the execs told me to tell you that you have to come up with something over this vacay. Seokmin called them earlier and explained how ty your lyrics were last time. When we were at his office building, remember? So, they’re crossing their balls that you can write something passable. By passable they mean happy . Happy, romantic . We don’t want Hideous Hawaii to happen again.”

“I’d do Hideous Hawaii all over again. Anytime.”

“Jeonghan, your career is at stake. Don’t you remember what I said? That the next album could well be your last? Do you really want that?”

“No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I can’t really write something right now.”

“Why not? Just choose a random love story if you can’t make something up.”

“Yours?”

“Mine?”

“You and Wonwoo have been progressing very well, from what I’ve heard.”

A crispy laugh was heard from the other line. “He’s the best. I think I know more things about him now than I did about my ex in three years.”

“You’re a miracle worker, Mingyu,” said Jeonghan through a smile, flicking the ash off the rear of his cigarette. “You’re bound to make things you want to work out, work out.”

“Whoa, whoa, back up a bit!” Mingyu dramatically gasped. “Is this a compliment I’m hearing?”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes in a playful fashion. “Two compliments, actually. Seriously though, I have you to thank. For putting up with my for six years.”

Mingyu paused. “You’re saying it like you’re saying goodbye.”

Jeonghan’s fingers slipped the smoking cigarette in the corner of his mouth, his lips trembling. “Just a moment of appreciation. Soak in it while you can.”

A brief silence—then Mingyu emitted a hasty chuckle. “Alright, alright.”

The line went mute for a few seconds. Jeonghan assumed that Mingyu was luring Wonwoo to his lap with sweet lines and naughty promises, and perhaps grabbing the chance to snog him whenever it presented itself. He hard on his stick and whiffed out a couple of rings before he smashed the remains of his cigarette on the carpet with his bare knuckles. It singed the fur in a disfigured circle of black. Jeonghan coughed the nicotine out of his lungs and leaned his head against the pale wall. He brought his phone closer to his ears.

“How do you do it, Mingyu? How do you do it?”

The line buzzed and crackled and erupted to life. Mingyu’s voice was slow as it was besieged with a distant cacophony of shouts and guffaws—a sort of muffled commotion that could only inhere in bars.  “Jeonghan? Jeonghan, what is it?”

“How do you do it?” repeated him, his teeth delving into the walls of his mouth in instinct. “How do you manage people? How do you handle my pain or Wonwoo’s pain or everybody’s pain and not get—not get sick or overwhelmed?”

Mingyu went silent. Jeonghan felt as if he were in another brink of a flood of tears. His teeth did not discover another vein. Where were the veins? Were they numb? Were they numb when he was exploding with guilt and shame and pain which was not even his?

“Jeonghan, I’m a ing manager.” Mingyu’s voice was matter-of-fact. “I’m your ing manager. It’s my job. I don’t know how I do it—I just do it. I don’t think about it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think at all.”

Jeonghan drew his eyes close. He sharpened his attention to Mingyu’s every utterance, clinging onto them desperately and determinedly. His free hand scrambled to extract the pack from his jacket. It was empty. .

“In life, there’s yin and yang: opposite forces are complementary to each other. I learned that in yoga. They work in bajillions of ways and I know only one: order and chaos. You see, I’m always orderly when I do my job. I phone this person, I e-mail that person, and then I go to you and the execs. Point is, there’s a system. But when I’m not being Mighty Manager Mingyu, I’m a complete chaos. I don’t follow a system; I follow my heart. I wear it on my sleeve, I say things without much care, and I screw up. But I turn out fine! My life is still intact!”

The apparent glee in Mingyu’s words attracted a small yet amused smile on Jeonghan’s face. His fingers clenched tighter around the phone and he pulled his knees up to his chest.

“The reason I’m saying all of this is because I know you’re going through . The tabs, the execs—they must have driven you off the edge. And something must be up with Seungcheol, too. Don’t think about denying it, because Wonwoo is one goddamn good informant and even an embryo could see how much you’re head over heels with him. So, being the unbearably kind manager I am, I’m providing a helping hand.”

He paused, and Jeonghan could hear him downing something. A Heineken was his best bet.

“Chaos is needed, Jeonghan. Not even I can manage your pain without crumbling down every little while—and by crumbling down I mean having a drunken episode or two. But good things always come out of this stuff. Good and bad are yin and yang too, I guess.”

Jeonghan forced a chuckle. “You’re an exceptional manager, you know that?”

“Three and counting! You’re on a run!”

For once, Mingyu’s pep talk was not swathed in pity or condescendence, and the sense of renewal and optimism remained with him when Jeonghan ended the call and deactivated his phone. Good things always come out of this stuff. He just needed to put his belief in that statement. He just—

“Hideous Hawaii. Mind telling me more about that?”

Jeonghan jumped in his spot. The white front door to Seungcheol’s apartment was severed from its doorway by a gap of bright lights pouring into the hallway and Seungcheol’s swollen face. He had a crooked smile on his lips, ading his red cheeks and rising to his baggy eyes. Jeonghan could only stare and gulp and admire. Still breathtaking as ever.

“It’s just—a nickname.” His voice arrived ill-timed, a few long moments after Seungcheol’s chocolate eyes penetrated into his dreary ones. “A nickname to a terrible experience Mingyu and I had.”

Seungcheol nodded in comprehension. “Tell it to me over coffee?”

Jeonghan hesitated. “I’d rather stay away from the kitchen for a while.”

A flash of horror crossed Seungcheol’s face, and Jeonghan instantly regretted his words.

“Seungcheol, I—”

“No, I get it.” His composure returned in the blink of an eye, and that dashing smile of his was on it again. “How about the stairs?”

Jeonghan did not exactly know what he meant, and he did not exactly know either why he was willing to drag himself back inside the glass-dominated apartment and subject his blonde locks to a hoodie and his face to a pair of sunglasses which veiled half of it. With an evident shortfall of babysitters, Seungcheol scooped a sleeping Chan into his arms and the three whisked away in Seungcheol’s Prius.

“So,” Jeonghan began in a small voice, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel, “did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” answered Seungcheol. “Thanks for carrying me to my bedroom.”

“Technically, I dragged you there,” he clarified. “But you’re welcome.”

Jeonghan could not comprehend the reality in which a man who had cinched his fist around his neck twelve hours earlier was now offering his gratitude alongside an apologetic smile. Was the outburst in the kitchen another personality of Seungcheol’s he had not seen? Or was it all just order and chaos, and Jeonghan just so had happened to catch the father in a defining moment?

But it was my fault, Jeonghan thought. Seungcheol was not the one who lost grasp of himself and temporarily perished in frustration and selfishness. Seungcheol was not the one who openly provoked even if it were not his intention. Seungcheol was not the one who smoked his day away and scorched holes on the hallway carpet, rocked by his headaches and bitten by his monsters.

The hushed journey ate up more than an hour of the night, and it was the start of Saturday when they walked to the open, scarlet arms of Escadaria Selarón. The lights sprouting from towering poles were wavering and dingy, but the dots of stars spanning the dark, black sky exuded enough heat to illuminate the site. Endless steps advanced before them, each constructed of diverse tiles fetched from all parts of the world. Rolling hills of ruby red squares flanked the stairway, which was ensconced in clods of imperious green, blue, and yellow. Victorian houses stood sentinel behind the magnificently vivid steps, a depressing contradiction from the outbreak of tiles and color. The place was deserted at this late hour, urging them to freely charge and climb and explore.

After ten minutes of gawking at the place in awe, Jeonghan seated himself on a box built out of black tiles, his legs dangling and the soles of his feet slapping the porcelain. It did not take long for Seungcheol to hop up and claim the empty spot next to him. He had laid Chan on thick layers of plaid blankets on one of the boxes nearby, timely breathing and peacefully sleeping under the stars.

Jeonghan rested his palms on his lap and held the urge to chew maniacally on the flesh of his mouth. He had been bursting with guilt and apologies for hours on end and there was not a single slab of cigarette to divert him from the impending nerves. Not that he would be able to have a placid session of pushing rings out of his lungs—Seungcheol despised smoking and smokers to the bone. He had always shooed Jeonghan to the hallway whenever he was in dire need of nicotine. Jeonghan wondered if his little (alright, enormous) addiction would hinder them from taking things up a notch.

I’m losing my mind. Taking things up a notch? Seungcheol was out of his league. Superstars and single dads don’t mix. Liquor was the only thread that connected them, and Jeonghan forbade himself to blow things out of proportion even further. There was no such thing as fate. He and Seungcheol were just not the right combination.

“Thank you,” croaked Seungcheol, destroying Jeonghan’s thoughts. “For opening my eyes.”

Jeonghan cast him a glance. “What?”

“I didn’t know I had to be happy first,” he whispered, and Jeonghan eased into himself, collecting his jumbled lines of remorse and listening to the words. “But now that I’ve pondered, you’re right. I do need to be happy first. If not, what will become of Chan?”

“I think you already knew it all along,” disagreed Jeonghan. “You were just too afraid to realize it.”

Seungcheol shrugged. “Perhaps. Nevertheless, you’re the one who showed me. So, thank you.” He glued his gaze to Jeonghan’s face, who stared back at him, amazed at how the starlight flickered across his face and tickled his jawline and how he seemed to be the most beautiful person ever. “You’re not what everyone says you are.”

“I’m not?” Jeonghan dumbly asked, his lips parted in captivation.

“You’re not.” Not for a split second did Seungcheol rip his gaze away, and the overwhelming eye contact was both fulfilling and intimidating to the long-haired man. “You’re a good person, Yoon Jeonghan.”

The words activated a thankful smile on Jeonghan’s lips and launched themselves into his heart, calming him and moving him. “Thank you,” he whispered. “That means a lot.”

“And I’m sorry I strangled you,” Seungcheol continued with a slight, sheepish chuckle. “I’ll put on some ointment when we get back home.”

Jeonghan shook his head vigorously. “No, I’m the one who’s supposed to say sorry. I didn’t mean to corner you, and yet I did.” He stopped and gulped, bowing his head down in shame. “I—I only thought of how Chan must’ve felt and not you.”

A small laugh escaped Seungcheol’s lips. “Jeonghan—”

“No, listen.” Jeonghan lifted his head and decisively met Seungcheol’s eyes again, glistening with something he could not decipher. “It must’ve been hard for you, to raise Chan all alone. It wasn’t fair of me to contemn you like that. I appreciate your efforts, Cheol. Heck, I’m amazed by them.”

Seungcheol seemed stunned by his words, and Jeonghan was elated. He wanted Seungcheol to know. He wanted Seungcheol to know how much he had fought for a little boy with passion in his eyes and movement in his feet, how much he had sacrificed only to put a roof atop their heads and food inside their stomachs, how much Jeonghan applaud him, praise him, regard him as a person who never once succumbed to the harshness and cruelty of obstacles flooding his way.

“I rarely thought of other people’s feelings before all of this,” confessed Jeonghan, peeling his focus away for a moment to keep an eye out for Chan, who only wriggled in his sleep and coughed a few times before he curled back into silence. “But now I do. I think of yours, I think of Chan’s. And it’s all because of you. I… I want you to know that.”

His heart was walloping too quickly, its resonant beats slicing the bones of his ribcage. He did it. He said what he wanted to say, and Seungcheol—

Seungcheol’s fingers found Jeonghan’s. They laced, intertwined, closing the apparent gaps until their searing skins touched. It was a surprising act, and Jeonghan brought his gaze back to the black-haired man, who was watching him intently with his warm, familiar chocolate eyes.

And Jeonghan knew what it meant.

A sign of gratitude, a token of joy. They were now in a state of understanding, a condition in which two strangers with puzzling, crisscrossing paths had composed. It dawned on Jeonghan that they might not have a lot in common than many other people whom they had known separately, but that did not mean they were unable to connect with each other. Jeonghan gave their hands a squeeze, and Seungcheol put on a smile.

Their eyes persisted to look into each other, their fingers persisted to tangle together. Jeonghan discovered himself on a sweltering pavement next to Soonyoung and a coxinha vendor, accepting the fact that this parent, this wonderful father who possessed the brightest smile and the biggest courage, had stolen his heart bit by bit. Seungcheol’s hand was calloused and drawn with rough lines—it didn’t fit in Jeonghan’s smooth palm at all—but it felt right. It felt absolutely right to be holding his hand and staring into his soul, as if time was nonexistent and they were the only two remaining in the void, fingers strewn together all the while.

“Have I ever told you about Lee Jihoon?” Seungcheol said in a hushed voice.

“The one whose memories you don’t deserve?” predicted Jeonghan, sensing his heartbeat increasing not in nervousness, but in worthlessness.

Seungcheol nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. We used to be together.” His thumb began to caress the inside of Jeonghan’s palm. “I used to love him. I used to love him too much.”

Jeonghan patiently waited for Seungcheol to progress further, but the words never came. His expression was strange, as if he was in grief and anger at the same time. Intent to soothe him, Jeonghan squeezed their hands again. “Is he gone?”

“No, he’s still alive.” Seungcheol swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down uncertainly. “He loves traveling. He doesn’t like settling down. I had known from the start it wouldn’t have worked. But you were right. I had been too afraid to realize.”

Jeonghan tightened their fingers together, and Seungcheol gave a small chuckle. “Were you here before? The three of you?”

“Yes,” Seungcheol confirmed before he broke out into a broad smile. “But now is a better memory.”

Jeonghan could not pinpoint whatever he was submerged in right now. Whatever it was—jubilance, thankfulness, pride—he felt as if he could fly along the horizon, his hand never letting go of Seungcheol’s. They could fly together. He thrived in the warmth and the happiness and he squeezed their hands again. I like you. Good things always come out of this stuff.

“Wow, I’m holding hands with the famed Yoon Jeonghan,” Seungcheol noted as his eyes gleamed.

A laugh pushed past Jeonghan’s lips, half-entertained, half-edgy. Did he say the pronounced fact for the exultance of it? Or were his fingers going to break free, as if they were not strangers with intersecting paths, as if superstars and single dads don’t mix? But Seungcheol stayed in position, his palm cradling Jeonghan’s fingers. Jeonghan let out a sigh of relief.

“Enjoy it, Cheol. It’s an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Seungcheol’s face fell. “It is?”

Jeonghan dug his teeth to the walls of his mouth. He detected a hint of disappointment in Seungcheol’s orbs, but he did not want to cross his fingers and hope with all his might that Seungcheol would continue to think of this, of him, that way. If anything were to happen between them, it was not going to last. Perhaps there were no actual yin and yang. Perhaps they were meant to traverse on their own, independent roads. The thought shattered him, but he refused to break thoroughly. Not when he had Seungcheol’s hand in his. Not like this.

“Do you still want to know about Hideous Hawaii?” Jeonghan blurted out.

Seungcheol blinked in surprise but nodded his head nevertheless. “Let me guess, it happened in Hawaii?”

“You’re a genius,” acknowledged Jeonghan flatly, which Seungcheol welcomed with a laugh. “It was three years ago. I don’t remember much about what I did during my whole career, but this one really stands out.”

Seungcheol’s brows knitted in inquisitiveness. “What makes it different than the rest?”

Jeonghan went quiet for a while. “It cemented my belief about the music industry. That it’s nothing more than a money-starved enterprise which is always on the hunt to find people to terrorize and threaten in the name of music.”

Satisfaction washed over him the second he flung the last word out of his mouth. Despite his ceaseless hatred for the industry, he rarely spoke a word of it to anyone. Mingyu knew, obviously, but it was an insight he obtained from years of observing and monitoring, not by a heart-to-heart session. He craned his neck to take a glance at Seungcheol. He was smiling that smile of his, encouraging and sympathetic, but Jeonghan did not feel as if he were lower than him. It drove him to resume.

“It crushed me for a while, the industry. It still does, but at some point three years ago, I had some realization and wrote about what I felt. The fear, the irritation, all of it. It turned out into a song. Way more intense than Madman, and I believed it would have been more memorable. Ironically, I forgot the title. Anyway, I submitted it to the executives of my company without checking with Seokmin first. Do you know Seokmin? He’s my producer. He lives here. He and Mingyu do yoga together. Actually, that’s not relevant to what I’m telling you at all. I can’t remember why I didn’t check with him first. So, me and Mingyu and the execs had the meeting in Hawaii.”

He paused to heave a deep breath. Seungcheol waited soundlessly, his thumb still the inside of Jeonghan’s palm as if it was a red light flashing him the courage and endurance to go on.

“They rejected it. They rejected my song. They told me it was in their contorted, politely wicked businessman way. They told me that Madman was ancient and I was trying to do a rip-off of my own work to make myself more valid. They told me if I released another ballad, I would lose the fans and the money. They would lose the money. It was—it was a real turning point for me. Everything I felt was in that song and they rejected it. I felt like they denied me the right to be myself.”

Jeonghan bit the flesh of his mouth.                                                                                                                                               

“I punched an executive in the face. Hard. He got into a coma for a few days. They almost fired me, but they didn’t. They needed me.”

His breathing was no longer steady. His heart returned to its prior state of wildness, shooting a stab of pain to his chest every time it beat.

“The tabs may have uncovered the drunk driving and the drugs, but honestly, there is—there is still so much more than that. There was me going to ten bars a night, kicking people out of their own premises, sleeping with so many guys… and punching people. Don’t forget about punching people. I always resort to violence and irresponsibility, I think. It just… feels good. I feel good. I feel good and sorry.”

He forced himself to meet Seungcheol’s eyes, bracing for whatever it was to come. But there was not a trace of disgust in Seungcheol’s expression. It was that of proudness.

“I’m sorry, Seungcheol,” Jeonghan choked. “I went back to my old self this morning, in the kitchen. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

Seungcheol nodded promptly. His words and gaze dripped with kindness. “I know, Jeonghan. It’s not an easy thing for you to do. To be in that industry for six years must have been grueling.”

Jeonghan absently hummed. “It is.”

“But you survived. Six years later, you’re still here. You may have hurt people along the way, but… that was your attempt to find yourself. To find your place in your world. Believe me, it’s hard to do.”

Seungcheol looked at him in earnestness, his hand squeezing Jeonghan’s endlessly and quietly and Jeonghan loved that. “Write whatever you feel. Write whatever you want. It’s your music, it describes you, and they aren’t supposed to take that away from you.”

He could not help it. Hot, touched tears ran down his cheeks and he was sobbing hard. He heard Seungcheol whisper “Oh, Hannie” (or was it honey?) and he wrapped his arms around the long-haired man, shushing him softly and swaying their bodies gently. He took off Jeonghan’s drenched glasses for him and the latter pressed his bare, teary face against Seungcheol’s chest.

“We’ll buy a book and a pen after this, alright? Or would you prefer to use my laptop? Something tells me you’re feeling a lot right now. You’ve got the instruments already.”

Jeonghan shut his eyes and tried to nod. He used to feel so lost, so lost, and now he was found. He found Seungcheol. He found peace, he found empowerment, and he found acceptance.

 

---

 

Chan stared at him with incredulous eyes. “You didn’t tell me we went to Escadaria Selarón!”

Seungcheol emitted a chuckle. “You were sleeping. How could I?”

“Daddy, you could have woken me up!”

“You slept like the dead, bud. I didn’t dare to.”

Chan let out an exaggerated “hmph” and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Seungcheol shook his head in amusement and landed a peck on his son’s forehead.

“Cheer up, kiddo. We’re going to practice!”

Chan grumbled. “We have to go again after I finish! It’s been a long time since we went to Esc—” He blinked slowly, looking up at his father. “We?”

“We,” Seungcheol confirmed with a broad smile. “I’m accompanying you to the dance studio this time.”

A glimmer of delight lit up across Chan’s face and he cheered loudly, pumping a happy fist into the air and doing a little victory dance. “Daddy’s coming! Daddy’s coming! Daddy’s comiiiing!”

Seungcheol could not help a laugh from coming out as he ushered Chan out of his blue bedroom. “Easy, buddy. You’ve got to eat first!”

They exited the bedroom and trod down the carpeted stairs. A fragrant smell originating from the kitchen churned inside their stomachs and induced their hunger. Chatters also reached their ears, and Seungcheol lifted a brow. Who could Jeonghan be talking to?

A young man with sandy brown hair and a monochrome vest was perching on one of the kitchen stools when the father and son duo entered. He spun a red pen between his fingers and had another in blue tucked on the back of his ear. He flashed them a large smile, decreasing his eyes to slits, and rose from his spot with his arms outstretched.

“Choi Seungcheol!” he roared, hugging Seungcheol with much gusto. “I’ve heard so much about you! So this is the man who has awakened the art inside Yoon Jeonghan!”

Seungcheol coughed and patted the man’s back awkwardly. “Eh—it’s nice to meet you too…?”

“Seokmin! Lee Seokmin!” the man answered, still keeping the smile on his face. “Choi Seungcheol, I would like to thank you for bringing the old, artistic Jeonghan back. That book”—he motioned his hand toward a classic yellow notebook lying on the kitchen island, which Seungcheol recognized as the one he had purchased for Jeonghan last night—“had some golden lyrics inside. The best since Madman. And here I thought Jeonghan was losing his touch!”

Jeonghan. Seungcheol turned his head to the side, and the long-haired man was sweating. The blonde strands of his hair needed much taming, and he had a spatula in one palm and a porcelain plate in the other. Seungcheol figured he must have been hard at breakfast duty since the early hours. The smell of the food was to die for, and nothing had been spanned on the kitchen island just yet. Jeonghan managed a tired smile at both of them and shrugged.

“I just needed a little digging. Seungcheol did that for me.”

“Excellent!” Seokmin withdrew his arms, clapped his hands, and drifted his focus to Chan. “And you! Chan! I’ve heard so much about you!” He closed his arms around the boy and lifted him in a tight hug, causing Chan to laugh aloud.

Seungcheol only smiled to himself and took a seat opposite Jeonghan as Seokmin and Chan familiarized themselves with each other. Jeonghan turned off the stove and shoveled French fries from a tissue-covered tray to the plate in his hand. “Fish and chips with a twist?” Seungcheol guessed.

Jeonghan chuckled as he placed the plate on the island. “You got that right.”

“That’s a small portion for four people.”

“Relax, I’ve got more coming.”

Instead of loitering to cook the fish and prepare the twist, Jeonghan pulled a stool to him and sank onto it, a yawn ripping through his lips. Seungcheol only stared. It was a strangely marvelous sight.

“I hope you don’t mind about Seokmin being here,” Jeonghan said with a frown. “He barraged in at four-thirty. I was up writing, so I let him in. He got the address from Mingyu, who got it from Wonwoo.”

Seungcheol nodded his head in permission. “I don’t mind at all. But is he usually this loud?”

Jeonghan plastered a smile to his face. “No, not until recently.”

“Something must’ve cheered him up.”

“You did.”

“Me?”

Jeonghan aimed a finger to his notebook. “You brought that out of me. He’s always loud and happy whenever I write good stuff.”

Seungcheol scoffed and shook his head multiple times, much to Jeonghan’s surprise. “No. You brought that out of yourself, Jeonghan. I just said a few words.”

“Those few words were key words,” Jeonghan argued, his hand sliding across the marble and grasping Seungcheol’s in a practiced move. His eyes were honest and bold and Seungcheol felt as if he was losing his breath. “Thank you, Cheol. Thank you so much.”

Seungcheol lost his words as well. He gripped Jeonghan’s hand tightly, and they exchanged understanding smiles. Gratitude flooded him. No. Thank you, Yoon Jeonghan. He had been so fearful of contracting any feelings for Jeonghan that he missed the chance to stop and take him as he was: Yoon Jeonghan. Yoon Jeonghan, the brave celebrity-in-hiding who withstood his share of pain and loathing and all-around depravity in one of the most poisonous manufactories ever. Yoon Jeonghan, the man with hurt in his songs and adoration in his eyes and warmth in his touch. Yoon Jeonghan, the strongest person he had ever encountered. And my, was Yoon Jeonghan beautiful.

It dawned to him that he had strangled beautiful Yoon Jeonghan in his blind tantrum, and he recalled himself apologizing numerous times during their ride back home from Escadaria Selarón to his apartment in Ipanema. Jeonghan shook his head and reflected the fault to himself, and after minutes of intense bickering, they agreed on just letting it go. Seungcheol considered that morning in the kitchen to be a game changer for both of them; it led them to a secluded moment on a ceramic box, where they shared all the hurt between their laced fingers and the apologies between their souls.

Seungcheol had never confessed to anyone about Jihoon. He had never put out a word to describe Jihoon, unless to Wonwoo. But Wonwoo adopted his standpoint on the matter through years of watching and aiding Seungcheol in finding his rhythm, finding his life, finding his son and tying their knots tighter than before. There was more to say, there was more to know, yet at times Wonwoo buried Seungcheol’s thoughts and worries with his own prospects and vigilance. Wonwoo barely gave him the chance to be heard, to be known, to be recognized and appreciated.

Jeonghan gave him all of that.

(And when was the last time he talked to Wonwoo? He needed to give him a call. Or at least, drop a message to ensure he was still alive.)

Breakfast was served seventeen minutes later, and the four gobbled happily on fish and fries and the twist, which is a secret dipping sauce which blissfully burnt their tongues in a fresh, sour taste. Jeonghan purposefully sat next to Seungcheol, and their knees bumped against each other as they listened to Chan and Seokmin conversing.

“What brings you here, Uncle Seokmin?” the boy questioned.

Seokmin chewed on his chips as he spoke. “Well, forty percent of my reason was to check on Jeonghan, and the sixty is this.”

He presented a square of paper to the three of them. It bore a short, ambiguous address jotted down in tidy handwriting. Seungcheol squint his eyes. It was a familiar location.

“Why are you going there?” he asked.

“My dream boy told me to,” chirped Seokmin.

“Yes, he has a dream boy, who’s some guy he’s—hey, it’s in the same area as Chan’s studio!” Jeonghan exclaimed as he pointed to the paper with his oily fork.

“Chan’s studio?” Seokmin repeated dumbly, and Seungcheol was about to part his lips to enunciate when the former nodded his head in apprehension. “Ah, that studio. Well, are you all going? When are you going?”

“Me and Chan are going,” answered Jeonghan, withdrawing his fork and poking his chunk of fish with it. “Seungcheol is—”

“Going too,” interjected Seungcheol. Jeonghan stared at him, wide-eyed and amazed. “We’ll head out to the Metro station after breakfast.”

“Then I’m going too!” Seokmin loudly decided. “Let’s go!”

Moments later, Seungcheol busied himself by washing the filthy, oil-encrusted kitchenware Jeonghan had taken advantage of—and he seemed to have unnecessarily used almost every spoon Seungcheol owned. Jeonghan poured water to one of Chan’s bottle at Seungcheol’s insistence. Seokmin pored over the lyrics Jeonghan had written one more time, upturning his head only to shout, “Thank you, Choi Seungcheol!”

“Are his lyrics that good?” queried Seungcheol, his attention still settled on running the bowls under water.

“You underestimate Jeonghan,” Seokmin jokingly snorted. “They’re almost perfection itself. They’re truthful, soulful, and beautiful!”

Seungcheol finally looked up, meeting both Seokmin’s and Jeonghan’s orbs. “Can I have a look?”

Seokmin immediately stood up on his feet to hand the yellow notebook to him, but Jeonghan intercepted by retrieving it to himself from the producer’s palm. “No. No. Absolutely not,” he pressed as his cheeks heated up.

“Come on, Jeonghan.” Seungcheol rolled his eyes yet Jeonghan shook his head. “I won’t tease you about it!”

“It’s not yet the time!” countered him, the red flourishing across his cheek. “You can have a look when it’s on my album jacket.”

With that, he shot a dirty look in Seokmin’s direction and padded out of the kitchen.

Seungcheol made a frown and heaved a dramatic sigh. “What’s so wrong about having a look?”

Seokmin emitted a guffaw before dropping back to his seat. “They’re truthful, soulful, and beautiful.”

“Aren’t those the reasons of why I should have a look?”

Another chortle slipped out of Seokmin’s mouth. “Choi Seungcheol, are you seriously going to play pretend? Or are you just an idiot?”

Seungcheol plummeted his curious gaze to Seokmin, his brows furrowed, awaiting an answer.

“Oh, you ridiculously clueless man.” Seokmin brushed his forefinger against a tear in the corner of his eye. “Where do you think I’ve heard so much about you and Chan from?”

The times where Seungcheol found himself plopped on sticky grey subway seats with his eyes fixed on throngs of neon-clad legs and rears nowadays diminished to almost none. His favorite grocery store was a mere two-block distance from his apartment, and Wonwoo was always available every time for him to slide on the back seat and direct him to where he was headed. All the deliveries assigned to his vintage shop were constantly shipped to his doorstep. There was blatantly no need to pay a visit to the Metro station, until now.

The station had evolved into a stepping stone for beach shirt-donned tourists and snappy locals all around. Flimsy posters and maps of The Marvelous City caught his eye, sprawled on the smooth, concrete walls in a careless fashion. He had no second to spare to change the track on his iPod from Polly to Drain You, for the mob of travelers closed in on him so swiftly. It went over his head of how Jeonghan was able to maneuver himself through this torrid terminal twice every week, but he did seem like he was a fast learner.

Jeonghan proved himself to be nothing but capable in piloting them from the apartment to the actual train (an endeavor which Seokmin “could do himself, even better” if he were not so absorbed in laziness), but he was helpless when it came to securing seats. Seungcheol had to take the reins and managed to get two chairs opposite each other. Chan and Seokmin chatted fervently near a group of pale, lanky girls with visages caked in powder and messily dyed hair, while Seungcheol and Jeonghan held onto each other as they were squeezed by an overweight bearded man on their left and a silent, crippled grandmother on their right.

“My hurts,” Jeonghan casually said.

Seungcheol chuckled. “Mine too.”

“Aren’t there any other spots?”

“You want to give up these ones?”

“Judging from the pain in my , I would love to.”

“We’re almost there, right? So just hang on tight. This will be over soon.”

Jeonghan pursed his lips and huffed, inching closer to Seungcheol and tightening their linked arms. “I don’t want it to be,” he mumbled.

Seungcheol struggled his best not to hand Jeonghan the pleasure of cracking a smile or emitting a chuckle, but he could not help but to feel a little blossom of pride inside. He was in the process of conquering his fear after a year and his effort gained praise (was it? He was uncertain) from a wonderful, wonderful person. Who wouldn’t be overjoyed?

In spite of that, he knew any kind of distractions was not allowed. In order for Chan to be happy, you need to be happy first. He had to properly heal himself from the events that have resulted in such a broken outcome, and he could not invest all his origin of happiness in one person. There was no guarantee Jeonghan would stay. Just the thought of that took Seungcheol’s breath away.

However, he was a father. He was a father who could not afford to lose his son one more time. The only way he knew was to depend on himself. He did not need Jeonghan, did he? He could get by on his own, just like he already had for the past couple of years. He could get by on his own, without any interference from a long-haired singer or a nosy animator or a brown-haired producer.

Somehow, that version of reality seemed incredibly grim and unappealing.

The journey out of the train and into the open pavement was much easier and less hectic. Seokmin stared at the paper in his hand and darted his gaze around. “Well, I guess it’s goodbye,” he stated without any trace of remorse, his feet taking him to the south. “Adeus, amigos!”

The three waved goodbye before they marched north. With each forward step he took, Seungcheol felt a swell of dread accumulating. It had been a year—perhaps more—since he last saw Chan danced, actually, passionately danced. All he had witnessed during his year-long isolation were fun, unpracticed routines. He forgot what it was like to see Chan stripped bare, with him and his emotions taking over the stage and hypnotizing everyone who landed their eyes on him.

He did not want to stay like this, however. He did not want to be fearful of his son and his talents. He did not want to cower in his safe haven in Ipanema while Chan exhaled one profound performance after another with no kin watching. In order for Chan to be happy, you need to be happy first. They echoed in his mind and his heart and he curled his fingers into a determined fist. My son needs me.

Everything had been a strange sight: a grey Metro station packed with an assortment of different people with different paths of life every day, an unfamiliar street lined with brick houses and yellowed tabebuia trees, and a gold-and-white dance studio he used to stop by every now and then. Nevertheless, he was glad that not all things had changed: the front door still groaned a little creak whenever he tugged just a bit too hard on the brass handle, the receptionist still chewed blueberry gum, floral-printed armchairs still formed a part of the waiting room, and Jeonghan’s fingers still laced with his, providing comfort and company as last night.

“Daddy, you will watch through the mirror, right?” Chan questioned, his hopeful eyes blinking at his father.

Seungcheol nodded stiffly. “Of course, pal. I’ll be right behind it with Jeonghan.”

“Shut up or everyone will hear you,” Jeonghan hissed as he fixed the position of his sunglasses. “Go get ‘em, Channie!”

Chan entered the practice room with a megawatt smile Seungcheol was positive had never seen before. The fear and tension which had formerly dissipated were returning, choking him by the neck and freezing his body. What if this turned out to be a mistake? What if fate had chosen to pluck him from his apartment and place him here, only to watch another traumatizing performance? What if, no matter what he did or what he gave up, he could never become the same person he was before all the hurt that descended upon him?

As if sensing his troubles, Jeonghan gave their intertwined hands a squeeze. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered. “It takes time. You’re adjusting. You don’t have to heal so soon, Seungcheol. What matters is that you try.”

Seungcheol forced himself to hum in response. What matters is that I try.

“That’s Soonyoung,” Jeonghan pointed to a teal-haired man in a similar jacket as Chan’s. “He’s the head choreographer and founder of the crew. He’s a really nice guy. I threw eggs in his face the other day.”

This rose a laugh out of Seungcheol’s throat. “What for?”

The music commenced, slightly distant and warped. Jeonghan shook their hands together, and Seungcheol attempted to pay attention. Through the corner of his eyes, he recognized relief in Jeonghan’s face. Nevertheless, Seungcheol shelved all of his assumptions and devotedly observed the ongoing rehearsal through the one-way mirror attached to the wall of the waiting room.

Concentration filled Chan’s face and precision flowed through the swings of his arms and legs. He lunged towards Soonyoung in a graceful split in the air and popped his way out of a particular formation just in time for his solo dance.

Seungcheol never thought, never realized how much he longed for this: Chan’s unbearably addictive stage persona, the seamlessness of his glides and the stories he spoke of through his face and limbs. He missed the unfolding of every tale, he missed witnessing his son boundlessly growing onstage, and he missed being proud of him. His son.

“He’s amazing, isn’t he?” Jeonghan murmured. “How are you holding up?”

“Great,” responded him. “Immensely great.”

He could hear Jeonghan smile. “He’s been coveting that solo dance for weeks. Soonyoung couldn’t decide on a theme for the main thing yet, so it’s always different every time they rehearse.”

“This—this is just the warm-up?”

“Mhm. Now pay attention.”

Seungcheol paid attention. He could feel the rumble of the music building up, the shriek of a crescendo, Chan poising his arms up in the air…

And then it began.

Exultance. It was there in every shift, every move, every . It was there on his face. It was there on the rise of his lips, forming an illuminating smile. It was there on his toes, as he jumped and flew and mesmerized. Chan’s story was of a family reuniting, unraveling the wrongly knotted strings and straightening them to place. It was of a tearful boy and a shameful father, working their way up and down the ladder of life. It was of the appearance of a traveler, cementing everything in their respective spots. His expression contorted and scrunched and relaxed while he ruled the floor, his hands reaching out as if he were demanding Seungcheol and Jeonghan to join, to grab him, hug him, save him from something which was no longer harmful.

And then it ended, and the crew stepped forward to assume their original position at the very front, and Seungcheol felt as if he was going to cry. But he did not, could not. He had not cried in ages. Only a bone-chilling cold overwhelmed him, a steely reminder that he had arrived at a point he thought he would never see through.

“Well, that was something,” Jeonghan whispered. “Are you alright, Cheol?”

Seungcheol nodded his head. “It’s so much to take in.”

“It is,” the long-haired man confirmed with a small chuckle. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

They occupied a floral-print armchair each, stretching their legs over one same ottoman. Chan’s turn was still hours away after the initial review performance, and Seungcheol thought it was not a bad thing to pass the time with Yoon Jeonghan.

“Should we play our game?” Seungcheol suggested, intent to ignore how chilly his limbs felt.

Jeonghan furrowed his brows. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

Seungcheol bit his lips and shrugged after a while. “I’m still forming my thoughts.”

He was not. He was just too afraid to realize, but the cold was uncomfortable and the words were stuck on the walls of his throat and he would rather immerse himself in some Nirvana.

Jeonghan was still unbelievably bad at their game, if not worse. He completely missed Seungcheol’s deliberate hint on Love Buzz and he mistook Pat Benatar for Joan Jett. Seungcheol topped the game point by point as he supplied correct answers to Jeonghan’s inquiries. He had thought the cold would dissolve when he was having a good time like this, like now, with Jeonghan, but it stayed persistent in the nooks of his veins and the crannies of his bones. It was not going away for a while.

Halfway through the game (Jeonghan 6 – 13 Seungcheol), the waiting room door burst open, revealing a panting Seokmin clutching the front of his shirt. Both Seungcheol and Jeonghan were caught in surprise as the producer tidied his windswept hair and loosened his grip around the fabric of his cloth. Before any other ones could open their mouths, he asked, “Jeonghan? Seungcheol? What are you doing here?”

Seungcheol made a frown. “We should be the ones asking you that.”

“I’m meeting my dream boy!” yelled Seokmin matter-of-factly. “You two are not exactly—”

“What dream boy?” cut off Jeonghan, his voice accusing.

Just then, the door to the practice room swung open, and a head of teal hair popped through. Soonyoung flashed a wide smile in Seokmin’s direction, but it faltered when his eyes spotted Seungcheol and Jeonghan, though a knowing look took over his face.

“Oh, hello!” he greeted cheerfully. “You must be Chan’s fa—”

Jeonghan shrieked, “Your crush is Seokmin?”

Soonyoung’s lips transformed to a pout. “How did you know?” He glanced at Seokmin. “Do you know him?”

“Know him is an understatement, love,” Seokmin remarked, taking steps to close the distance between him and Soonyoung. “Jeonghan and I work together.”

Seungcheol heard Jeonghan’s breathless gasp. Soonyoung froze in his spot and moved his stare at the three of them in horror. Seokmin blinked in confusion, but Jeonghan’s terrified reaction brought him to remembrance. The former quickly slapped his palm to his forehead and muttered every profanity even Seungcheol could not think of. The latter mildly shook his head as he placed his hand sympathetically on Jeonghan’s knee before he turned to the door.

“Lee Seokmin!”

Everybody flinched, but Seokmin responded with a small voice. “Yes, Choi Seungcheol?”

Seungcheol curved up a smile. “You’re an idiot.”

Seokmin blinked before rolling his eyes. “I know.”

 

---

 

Hi, this is Seungcheol. I’m currently unavailable, so do leave a message. I’ll get back to you soon.

“Wonwoo speaking. You might want to check in with Pedro.”

 

---

 

This is Jeonghan. Leave a message. Thanks.

“Hey. It’s Mingyu. I’m sorry, Jeonghan. I’m ing sorry.”

 

---

 

It was everywhere.

The tabloids were chock-full with it: page after page dripping with horrific stories of how he waltzed in to a slew of bars and reeled out with liquor bubbling on his lips and blacks engraved on his skin. The television sang of it: each aloof news anchor dictated the news in voice-overs while snaps of Jeonghan hurling his fist to other people’s faces covered the screen. The internet was buzzing in glee because of it: trended hash tags swept Twitter entirely, entertainment websites and celebrity patrol networks intensified the tales and inflamed gossips to circulate. Everyone seemed so happy with the news, with the smallest bit of update on who Yoon Jeonghan actually was, with the snippet of what The Madman was off-camera.

And it sickened him.

Mingyu decreed for an emergency meeting in Seungcheol’s sitting room. Everyone, with no surprise, attended: Wonwoo and Chan played random games in the boy’s console, claiming they were doing everyone good by putting the television to another use; Mingyu paced along the carpet with his hands clasped beneath his chin; Seokmin was in a noisy call with one feisty journalist; Soonyoung had his head in Seokmin’s lap, trying not to doze off; Seungcheol served a tray of mojitos in effort to soothe everyone and settled on the sofa next to Jeonghan, his hand immediately reaching out to the long-haired man’s and tangling them together.

“Alright, let’s backtrack a little,” Mingyu instructed, shattering the silence. “I was in a bar with Wonwoo—”

“A seemingly innocent guy in glasses swooped by,” Wonwoo added.

“Yes, and he asked questions, and I answered.”

Wonwoo coughed. “Drunkenly.”

Mingyu sighed. “Drunkenly.”

“It’s not your fault,” reasoned Seungcheol. “Anyone would say anything when they’re drunk. I got that from experience.”

“But I’m a manager.” Mingyu shook his head in frustration. “I’m not even supposed to be drunk in the first place!”

Jeonghan willed himself to speak. “It’ll be alright,” he said, but his voice came out meekly and feeble. Everyone focused their eyes on him. “Order and chaos, right? Everything will fall into place sooner or later.”

“We tried,” Wonwoo remarked with a shrug. “Where do you think Mingyu and I have been these past few days? We tried to stop the news from hitting print. We tried to talk my boss out of it. Now look what’s happening.”

“That doesn’t mean this won’t go away,” piped up Soonyoung. He rubbed his eyes for a moment before continuing. “This isn’t the juiciest story in the world. It will die down.”

Mingyu scoffed. “Along with Jeonghan’s career.”

“Now, hang on, everyone,” Seungcheol pressed, his tone authoritative. “We can’t be the only ones worrying this, right? What about your people in South Korea? The executives of your company? They must be doing something.”

“They’re probably thinking of firing Mingyu,” whispered Jeonghan as he tried to swallow a lump in his throat. “No one else would’ve known so much about my… antics. And they know I’m not stupid enough to leak it to the press.”

“So you’re saying that I’m stupid?” Mingyu countered defensively. Wonwoo pulled the fabric of his shirt just in the nick of time, giving him a warning look. Jeonghan shifted closer to Seungcheol and closed his eyes.

“I’m not, Mingyu. It’s just… Everything is chaos. I don’t know what to think, let alone what to do.”

Seungcheol rubbed his thumb on the inside of Jeonghan’s palm. The mere act caused his nerves to dissipate a bit and his headaches to subdue. Good things always come out of this stuff.

“That was Hannah,” Seokmin notified while Jeonghan heard the sound of his phone sliding into his pocket. “She’s a million times pushier now.”

“What did she say?” inquired Seungcheol.

“She only tried to confirm if everything was true, as if the pictures weren’t enough. She’s also gotten hold of every guy you beat up, Jeonghan. Rumors are arising that they will properly sue, since the company didn’t take this matter seriously.”

Wonwoo snorted. “They are now.”

“The smart move is to make a statement, in my opinion. Shoo them away with your beliefs,” Seokmin explained.

Jeonghan opened his eyes. Somehow, he had his cheek leaning against Seungcheol’s shoulder, and it was a warm place to be. He coughed and gulped and replied after a long interval. “It might be risky. What if the guys I beat up refer to whatever they think is wrong in that statement and include it in their charges?”

Soonyoung jolted up from Seokmin’s lap. “They can do that?”

“If they want the money so bad, they will,” enunciated Mingyu.

“Well, we have to at least do something,” Seungcheol insisted. “We can’t let the press bully Jeonghan like that.”

Jeonghan threw his glance at him. Seungcheol’s orbs were determined, his brows curled intently. He drew a smile on his face and leaned in to whisper in Seungcheol’s ear. “Thank you.”

Seungcheol offered him that smile, that irresistible smile of his, and Jeonghan fought, he fought hard not to connect their lips together.

Then it hit him.

Things would be one ed-up of a whirlwind now. He would have to straighten things out, with or without a proper statement. He would have to soothe egos and tame reporters and appear on interviews with chatty blonde girls draped in Balenciaga dresses. Would he be too preoccupied with the current of things? Would he still wait for Chan during dance rehearsals and pick him up after school? Would he still be an unofficial, temporary intern in Seungcheol’s shop? Would he even be able to stay in Rio anymore? Or was his time up?

The thought of parting with Seungcheol and Chan crushed him more than any rumor could have.

He did not want to leave. He did not want to abandon them. He gripped on Seungcheol’s hand a little tighter and—as if deciphering his underlying message—Seungcheol coiled an arm around Jeonghan’s shoulder. He embraced the long-haired man tightly, gently, and Jeonghan felt as if he could crack open in such mingled joy and frustration.

And things were going so well.

“Does this mean Jeonghan has to go?”

Everyone switched their focus to the small, timid voice from the corner. Chan was weeping silently, tears coating his cheeks and staining the collar of his sweater. Soon enough, he erupted into passionate wails, flapping his hands and sobbing so loudly Jeonghan could sense his heart breaking little by little.

“Oh, baby, come here,” Seungcheol cooed as he stretched one of his arms open. In a hurry, Chan waddled in his direction and climbed to his father’s lap. Jeonghan figured Seungcheol would drop everything and set his attention fully on Chan, but he didn’t. Seungcheol kept an arm locked around Jeonghan, while the other wrapped Chan’s small figure as the boy cried against his chest.

Warmth was what Jeonghan felt, followed by a swift stab of pain. Seungcheol hugged both of them just as gentle, just as caring and Jeonghan felt as if he were part of the family. But he would not be able to see the sight of them anytime soon, would he? As Chan held out his small palm towards Jeonghan, the latter clenched it with his free hand in a reassuring manner.

“I’ll always have you in my mind, love,” he spoke softly. “In my heart, too.”

Another unfruitful hour passed. All the mojitos had been chugged out of their glasses. Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and Chan were still a tear-tainted mess on the couch, clutching each other closely, their fingers all meshed together. Mingyu and Seokmin were texting on their phones, eager in analyzing and processing the news which sprouted ceaselessly. Wonwoo was asleep on the carpet. Soonyoung flicked through the television channels, intentionally permitting the animal documentaries to fill the screen longer than the news.

“Do you want to know what to do in depressing times like these, Jeonghan?” he quizzed, and everybody looked up in curiosity.

Jeonghan raised a brow. “What?”

“Join yoga,” he answered with a broad grin.

 

---

 

Seungcheol was getting the hang of it. The speed of his concocting nighttime drinks had sluggishly decreased during the first thirty minutes, but now he found his rhythm and he was pushing out mixed liquor as easy as usual. Rows of pink margaritas and golden brandies were displayed on the wooden bar with slants of restaurant lights gleaming off the transparent glasses. He threw a bottle of cognac in the air and his palm wrapped around its neck just in the nick of time, pouring its content to a small glass before presenting it to a particularly bossy customer.

Nights at Castanho were somehow capable of assuaging him. Perhaps it was the intimate ambience or the psychedelic cocktails or the motivating prospect of a large amount of income. In any way, his station behind the bar and receiving full view of the entire dining room was his preferred spot to be. He normally, mentally judged each customer making their way through the double doors and chuckled to himself whenever there was unnecessary commotion from waiters scurrying to their white tables too slowly or the overcooked steaks and fishes served in front of them. It was a fun activity to do, especially with Lou Reed’s Walk on the Wild Side rumbling through his earphones.

Especially with Jeonghan sitting across him in the exact stool where they first met, his handsome face hidden by gigantic sunglasses which failed to conceal his radiance, his smile, his beauty.

But Jeonghan was no longer there. He had made his departure early in the morning five days ago, where two bulky, intimidating bodyguards had whisked him away and shoved him forcefully into a black Sedan. Seungcheol could remember how furious he had been. He was so close to landing a fist on one of the bodyguard’s faces when Mingyu held him back.

“You’ve done enough, hosting him for nearly a month,” Mingyu had said. “It’s his time to take responsibility. To come out of hiding.”

“He’s scared, Mingyu,” Seungcheol miserably attempted to point out. “Just let him stay here for a few days or so. He can’t dive straight in to that lion’s den. He will need some anchor, something for him to hold on.”

“Seungcheol, come on.” Mingyu poked him with the end of his dark sunglasses, his brows arched knowingly. “Jeonghan’s a survivor. You know that fact as well as I do. He can get through this. He will get through this.”

He had only been able to stand on the pavement, pulling Chan back from the tinted windows of the car before it rushed off halfway across the city. The poor boy was teary eyed yet managed to withhold his tears—an act that made Seungcheol’s heart ache.

Now it was just the two of them, just like old times. Yet, the apartment now served itself as a hollow abode which lacked someone to occupy the couch during nightfall. It was a strange sensation not to see Jeonghan discharging snores that shook the walls of the sitting room. It was a strange sensation not to have Jeonghan dancing his fingers along the keyboard keys or strumming the bass and the guitar or blowing the flute and the harmonica heartily. It was a strange sensation not to have Jeonghan there.

The singularity of the situation did not apply to him alone. Chan’s effervescence dwindled day by day, the blazing fire he possessed no longer reaching as high or as vehement as it had been. He enveloped himself in quietness most of the time, and if Seungcheol had not struck conversation first about an upcoming dance recital or Marvel action figures, the latter doubted the boy would talk at all. When the sun fell below the horizon, the stereo played Madman twice as loud to make up for Jeonghan’s actual voice, Jeonghan’s actual being.

The vacancy of a particular long-haired man in their midst strained the days. They grew to be a slow, torturous crawl that stole the breaths and whatever positivity Seungcheol had in mind when he woke up. In contrast, the globe was turning in perpetual motion. Jeonghan was with it, obeying every fluctuation and never missing a beat. They were no longer strangers met by luck. They were in opposing worlds, where a single parent and a renowned musician could never build any sort of future together.

Yet it did not halt Seungcheol from wanting him. He was certain he could get by alone. He had been raising his boy for years, learning the tricks from online parental communities and gruesome experiences. He had been providing Chan with everything he needed with much attention and precision. He was financially stable yet emotionally unsteady. He could always go to every soccer match Chan was participating in and cheer the loudest. He could always attend every stage Chan was performing on and scream in pride of his son.

Seungcheol was not certain if he wanted to get by alone.

He was not necessarily lonely, though. Wonwoo had been busy embarking on passionate all-nighters in his office due to the amount of time wasted on his meetings with Mingyu rather than animation work. There was still Seokmin, who clearly had no direct relation to the unfolding controversies presently surrounding Jeonghan. There was still Soonyoung, who could just never shut up and appeared wherever Seokmin was. And there was his little boy, too quiet and too sad but too in love with his father to lock himself away in his blue bedroom.

With Wonwoo’s temporary absence on top of Jeonghan’s already maddening one, Seokmin and Soonyoung inserted themselves in the role of babysitters. As newfound friends, Seungcheol liked them. They had vibrant personalities and their constant need of skin contact with the people around them (and with each other) was tolerable, even funny at times. But as babysitters, they gloriously .

Bearing the reason in mind, Seungcheol had specifically requested to have them over at Castanho tonight along with Chan. As a Rio-based producer, Seokmin had dined here multiple times, but the restaurant was evidently a new sight to behold for Soonyoung. He ogled in awe as the three of them made their way from the entrance to the bar right opposite of it. Seokmin already had his arms wide open and nearly slapped two passing waiters in the face all at once.

“Choi Seungcheol!” He stretched himself over the bar and hauled Seungcheol into one of his characteristic hugs. “How are you? Things have been so infuriating, don’t they?”

Seungcheol clapped Seokmin on the back and subtly nodded. “Yeah, but it’s fine. I’m doing fine.”

Seokmin released him as he raised a questioning brow. “Are you?”

“No. Not at all.” Seungcheol smiled bitterly and motioned his hand along the array of cocktails on exhibit—it was part of a special promo which concept he did not grasp beyond him making thrice as many cocktails as he normally did. “Help yourself.”

Seokmin hooted in excitement while Soonyoung and Chan took their respective seats next to him. Both of them flashed a quick yet brilliant smile in Seungcheol’s direction before the teal-haired man resumed his babbling.

“… I’m just saying that ‘uncle’ sounds a little bit stiff, you know? I was hoping if we could get on a name-to-name basis. I know I’m your choreographer and all, but Chan! We go way back! Don’t you think I look young and handsome? Uncles don’t look young and handsome.”

Chan blinked repeatedly. “So then you’re an uncle?”

“Chan! We just talked about this!”

Seungcheol snickered to himself and lowered Lou’s volume. Seokmin was happily sipping on his margarita when he gestured the black-haired man to come closer.

“I forget things a lot, Seungcheol. If it’s not work-related, I’m not that good at keeping information. So tell me, have I told you that Jeonghan left me a message for you?”

Seungcheol furrowed his brows. “No.”

“Ah! So, we were in a call the other day. He said he missed you. I mean, I don’t know if he wants you to know—but I think you deserve to know.” Seokmin’s orbs glanced at him knowingly. “He constantly thinks of you. He never stops.”

A smile automatically rose Seungcheol’s lips. He was glad that he was not the only one with a haunted mind. He was glad that Jeonghan spared time to think of him, to miss him, just like what he was doing now.

“Thanks for telling me that,” he replied, patting Seokmin’s shoulder. “I appreciate it.”

“Hang on just yet! I’ve got something for you too!” Seokmin raised a forefinger and used his free hand to search the inside of his jacket, but an expression of confusion was prompt to take over his face. “Babe, where’s the thing?”

Soonyoung immediately halted his rambling (Seungcheol could spot Chan sighing in relief) and craned his neck to look at Seokmin just as confused. “What thing?”

“The thing!” Seokmin rolled his eyes while extending his hand. “You know, the one with the—?”

Soonyoung’s face was blank before his lips formed a gasp, his head bobbing jubilantly. “Babe, you should’ve been more specific.”

Seokmin looked as if he were to slap him. “There’s only one thing!”

Soonyoung searched the inside of his own crew jacket and drew out a notebook that seemed familiar in Seungcheol’s eyes. It took a couple of seconds for him to realize that it was the notebook he had bought Jeonghan, the notebook that contained the golden lyrics Seokmin had spoken of.

“Jeonghan gave it to me to take care of,” enunciated Seokmin once he placed the notebook on the bar between them. “He anticipated that he would be too busy to write during whatever chaos he’s in right now and he didn’t want it to leave in your apartment either. Now, this is illegal if we follow Yoon Jeonghan’s terms. He doesn’t consent this.”

Seungcheol focused his perplexed gaze on Seokmin. “But you do?”

The producer gave a shrug. “You’re going through a lot. There’s a chance you two won’t be able to say what you have to say, if things continue to go downhill for Jeonghan. I know that sounds judgmental of me, but I’d most definitely regret it if I didn’t give you this.”

Seungcheol eyed him. Sincerity was apparent in his face and words. Hesitantly, he flicked the notebook open.

Most of them contained no title. All were messy scribbles of second thoughts and literary rhymes, the tunes and melody written invisibly across the pages. Seungcheol decided to go through the dog-eared sheets, marked with a red tint. They must have been Seokmin’s favorite lyrics, or perhaps Jeonghan’s. Seokmin inched himself away from Seungcheol in a considerate attempt of giving privacy. Seungcheol silently marveled his good heart and made a mental note of thanking him (again) later. As he inhaled deep breaths, he settled on the first dog-eared page and began to read.

Pick it up! Pick it up!
The sky was gold as I left the hurt on the floor
Keep it up! Keep it up!
Brought nothing with me as I hurled out the door

The wheels were turning and the world was churning
And at that moment our paths crossed
My heart was thumping and my words were trembling
‘Cause I knew I’m no longer lost

Seungcheol sank his teeth further to his lips. It certainly spoke of that time he brought Jeonghan home to his apartment. Or was it? Being a self-proclaimed rock specialist never enabled him the ability to interpret meanings from lyrics. He turned to another page.

When magic is a waste of time
And Broadway’s not your cup of tea
Don’t just stand there all aloof
While wallowing in misery!

Come and see the show
Of a boy with stories aglow
He’s got passion in his eyes and dancing in his feet
Oh boy, does it make him complete!

Put on that classic by Wolfgang
Or any song by Joan Jett
He will make you have the time of your life
Of that I am willing to bet

The song put a broad smile on his face. Seungcheol was definitely going to show this to Chan. There was a large chance this was the boy’s cup of tea. The page even had a tiny caricature of Chan waving a fedora hat and in the process of performing a moonwalk.

The next page was a little torn and it was the longest lyrics by far, taking up more than three pages. Seungcheol contained his anticipation and set out to read.

The eyes are open wide and swallowing me alive
On the surface is what they can devour
Deep inside my marrow, it’s untouchable
And that is where I keep my power

Seungcheol held his breath. Jeonghan’s a survivor. You know that fact as well as I do. He wished Jeonghan was there. He wished Jeonghan was there, sitting on his stool and curving up his familiar, gentle smile. He wished he could cup his palms around Jeonghan cheeks and asserted how brave he was, how strong he was, how he was the embodiment of all the things Seungcheol himself could never do.

Oh, you’ve got that dreamy smile
That keeps my gaze for awhile
And sincere eyes that swept me off my feet
I look up to the sky
I don’t want to say goodbye
And leave us bittersweet

The past is slow
Yet I’m never on the go
I am stuck between the hour
And then you run away
When I know you wanna stay
But you’ve got to have that power

Oh darling, you have your tears
And I have my fears
We’ll never share a sky
We’ll always wonder why
And it’ll be too late when it all clears

So let’s let the past be present!
Scare us and chase us and haunt us and more
We’ll just drift
Drift with the current

Pain is to keep you at bay
When all we want is to stay
So let’s just wear our ghosts on our sleeves
Then maybe
Neither of us would leave

Seungcheol read enough.

A long sigh escaped him as thoughts swirled inside his mind: of Chan twirling graciously for a throng of audience; of their first encounter in a golden bar; of the pain in his heart and the convulsion of his fingers; and of the ghosts clinging to the sleeves of their lives.

“And yet you did.”

 

---

 

“Jeonghan, do you get any satisfaction from an act of violence?”

“Over here, Jeonghan! Did you do it just to prove that you’re a man?”

“Were you on drugs when it happened, Yoon Jeonghan?”

Blood was in his mouth. Raw, searing blood flooded his tongue and soaked his teeth. The insides of his mouth were burning with pain, yet his face posed an expression of deadly calmness and arrogant indifference. The lights were garish and the questions were outrageous, but Jeonghan managed to command himself to put one foot in front of the other and walked bristly from the airport entrance to his designated terminal.

His key was to be quiet. Never say a word; never give starving press the pleasure of tasting his words and digesting them in whichever way they pleased. He was silent all the way until he plopped himself down the leather seats of his private jet (rented by the company as a small act of forgiveness for the pandemonium he had constituted on their reputation), mimicking to a stewardess a request for an empty glass.

Mingyu was not far behind. He was seated across Jeonghan the minute the plane doors inched close. The roots of his hair were starting to blacken, mixing not very well with his synthetic blue. Lines creased on his forehead and around his eyebrows, speaking of the amount of stress he had been receiving these last few weeks. Jeonghan had never seen Mingyu so depressingly absorbed in one issue, even if everything were at stake.

“Your trial is in two weeks,” he breathed out as he snapped the cover shut on his side of the window. “With the guy from London. The execs have hired extremely professional lawyers to help you out. You’re meeting him three hours from now, if this jet is fast enough. He isn’t Korean, so be careful with what you say around him. We have enough trouble as it is.”

The stewardess approached with an empty rocks glass in her hand and Jeonghan’s breath hitched. A swell of pain bloomed in his chest as he extended a hand to retrieve it. How long had it been since his first encounter with Seungcheol? How long had it been since they last saw each other face to face?

He internally sighed and blocked out Mingyu’s unremitting flow of information from his ears. He spat the blood into the glass, dark and precarious, and Mingyu gasped.

“Jeonghan! You’ve been chewing all this time?”

Jeonghan merely nodded his head and took a fresh bottle of water. After gurgling several times, at last he inhaled a deep breath and reclined his seat in effort to relax. Mingyu clicked his tongue in distaste.

“You need a break.”

“Finally. It took you long enough.”

Mingyu scoffed. “Go eat something and sleep. There’s still much ocean for this rickety thing to cover before we’re in Rio.”

Jeonghan rarely read the clock these days. He was a machine in motion anyway, only visiting places Mingyu told him to and responding to queries in a fashion his publicist told him to. He did not need to be aware of time, for it was automatic and predictable and there was no use for him to measure the seconds unless he wanted to count how many times he had thought of Seungcheol and Chan. And so, he ordered a breakfast menu, but the scrambled eggs were too greasy, and the bacon was too crispy, and his usual black coffee order was different than the ones Seungcheol had usually fixed him with.

Even food was foreign on his tongue nowadays. There were too many aspects of his current life that were alien and offbeat—which was odd in itself, because this was the path he had walked for a total of six years. Six years made up of constricting his vocal chords in soundproof booths and affixing his autograph in various kinds of paper and shooting “public” smiles in the direction of every blinking camera under a feverish spotlight. This media-criticized, public-analyzed life was supposed to be as if he were going back home, to familiarization and musical embracement.

Or maybe this wasn’t his home.

“Can I see Seungcheol?” he muttered absently.

Mingyu lifted his head from his phone. His lips were pursed. “Jeonghan…”

“It won’t take too long, I promise. Just a day or two.”

Mingyu shook his head firmly. “We can’t risk having you seen in public outside of scheduled events.”

Jeonghan scowled. “I can take care of myself just fine. I’ve disguised myself, remember?”

“Yes, but when the world’s holding a magnifying glass on your face, it won’t be as secure as it used to.” Mingyu marked the finality of his words by cocking his brows upwards in a stubborn fashion before he fixated his attention at his phone.

Jeonghan huffed noisily. He was not going to give up. The image of Seungcheol flitted in his mind before rapidly becoming the only one he could think of—but his face, his looks, his smile were faded and distorted in an unusual way. Jeonghan curled his brows and tried to remember his words, his significant words instead. But it did not quite sound like the Choi Seungcheol he knew.

Was he beginning to forget how Seungcheol sounded like?

It was terrifying—a horror he had never seen coming. He should never forget Seungcheol. Jeonghan attempted his best to recall the coarse texture of his skin, the curve of his full lips, and his head of ruffled, jet-black hair. It was a vain effort, for Seungcheol was drowned and beaten by cantankerous faces belonging to company executives and a batch of powdered makeup artists preparing him for his countless interviews. Seungcheol was no longer the embodiment of sojourns and ephemeral joy and friendly acquaintance—he was now the embodiment of permanence and fluttering hearts and a feeling teetering between like and love.

Jeonghan missed him so badly.

And Chan! He could feel himself choking up. The boy always instantaneously brightened his day with simple acts of happily smiling and merrily babbling. Weeks spent swapping tales of hobbies and ordeals during Metro rides and delving headfirst into adventures across The Marvelous City clouded his mind and triggered his lips to silently whisper, “I miss him, I miss him, I miss my little buddy.” Yet, Chan was also difficult to remember. He tried to imagine the father and son duo together, doing mundane things he himself had often seen: having breakfast in the kitchen, doing their The Parent Trap handshake, and singing to rock songs. But he couldn’t. He could not picture them together without losing his breath.

“I still have lots of my stuff back at his apartment,” he desperately reasoned. “My instruments, my clothes—you didn’t let me get them when you picked me up in that car.”

Somehow, this memory jogged Jeonghan’s fury faster than a heartbeat: Seungcheol and Chan stood, horrified and motionless as two suit-clad bodyguards swept Jeonghan down the stairs, before the two ran all the way outside, Seungcheol protesting to Mingyu and Chan slapping his hands on the car’s tinted windows, close to bursting into tears. It was the clearest out of all the memories he had accumulated during his stay; he wondered why.

“We’ll have someone get them for you,” decided Mingyu. “You don’t need to go trouble yourself that far.”

Jeonghan stiffened. “Excuse me?”

Mingyu’s nervous eyes met his. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean in that way.”

Jeonghan shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t know how important they are to me, do you?”

“I do, Jeonghan, it’s just—”

“They matter to me, Mingyu. I’m not the same person as I was before I met them.” Jeonghan exhaled deeply and his hand reached out to incline his seat. “Is it so wrong to miss them? To see them again?”

Mingyu was silent for a long moment. He then put his phone away from his hand and peered at Jeonghan intently. “You’re really attached to them, aren’t you?”

Jeonghan only shrugged.

Mingyu’s gaze intensified. “Do you love Seungcheol?”

A snort came out of Jeonghan’s lips, betraying the increased thumping of his heart. “I don’t know anything about love.”

“It’s not too late to learn.”

“It’s not too late to see him.”

They sat across each other, curious and surprised eyes boring into one another. Jeonghan felt nervous as if he were a child asking permission to do a task his parents would never allow. Ceaselessly, he tried and tried to sharpen the image of Seungcheol and all things connected to him: the calloused fingers, the warm palm, the soothing hug. They were all so frustratingly blurry and it only fueled Jeonghan’s determination to head for Ipanema the second his feet touched Brazilian soil.

“Six years is a long time, Jeonghan,” Mingyu brought up.

The statement caught Jeonghan off-guard. “Indeed it is.” He hesitated. “How are things with Wonwoo?”

Mingyu let out a chuckle. “Better now that I’m gone. He never once said that he missed me when we were back in Rio.”

“You two were inseparable,” laughed Jeonghan. “How could he have missed you?”

“I think we just hit it off pretty well.” Mingyu leaned back in his seat and smiled happily to himself. “I’m lucky to find him.”

Jeonghan faltered. Six years is a long time. Out of all the people he had met since his first day of debuting, Mingyu was the only remaining one who had withstood six long years being around him. Mingyu was always prioritizing Jeonghan and his needs and, despite several bad decisions that Jeonghan frowned upon, he did not do it based on professional obligation alone. Six years is a long time, and when you experienced it in a mentally brutal and bogglingly irrational music industry with one person, it was bound to redefine strengths and break boundaries.

“Mingyu,” Jeonghan called. “Promise me that you’ll start doing things for yourself after this.”

Mingyu scrunched up his brows and looked at Jeonghan in confusion. “What?”

Jeonghan breathed heavily. “Six ing years, Mingyu. You sacrificed that amount of time for me. After we settle this legal issue and whatnot, we’re done.”

“What?” Mingyu repeated, sitting upright in his seat. “What do you mean we’re done?”

“I mean, we’re done.” Jeonghan gave serious nods of his head. It was a newfound conviction he had adopted, and somehow it provided him bravery and confidence. “No more celebrity status for me, no more managing for you. We’ll start anew.”

Mingyu made a frown, but it was clear to Jeonghan that he was giving it a thought.

“You don’t have to say anything right now. We have things to take care of first, after all.”

Mingyu only stared at him. “Choi Seungcheol has ed up your mind.”

“I take that as a compliment,” remarked Jeonghan.

The blue-haired man crossed his legs and set his connected fingers in his lap. “There are three things celebrities are undoubtedly attracted to: money, , and booze. I think Seungcheol’s nearly the complete package.”

 

---

 

“This—this is gross—what are you—”

“You’re such a weakling, Seungcheol.”

“I just—don’t want to die ten—years sooner—”

Seungcheol let out a set of throatily strident coughs. He tossed the half-lit cigarette back into the ashtray and jammed his thumb against the button of the car window. He spat on the concrete road before drawing his head back in and letting the window stay open. Wonwoo shook his head pitifully at him, his bee-stung lips already wrapped around another cigarette.

“This is good, seriously,” he commented. “I never knew smoking could be this good.”

“It’s horrible,” Seungcheol disagreed. “Can I get out?”

“Of course not,” said Wonwoo calmly. “Let’s catch up for a while. It’s been weeks since we properly talked.”

It had. The two had been so engrossed in their own personal lives they barely had time for each other. They seized the opportunity to follow up with each other during Chan’s seventeenth dance practice, where they inhabited Wonwoo’s Lexus parked a few blocks away from Big Steps Little Steps, awaiting the clock to strike five P.M. before they could all return to their respective abodes.

“How are you holding up?” Wonwoo inquired through a mouthful of smoke. “It’s been two weeks since Jeonghan left.”

“I suppose I’m getting the hang of it,” answered Seungcheol. “Though it still hurts.”

Wonwoo cast his glance at him. Seungcheol heaved a sigh. “Now, before you shower me with worst-case scenarios—”

“I’m not going to shower you with anything but apologies,” Wonwoo intercepted, his tone remorseful.

Seungcheol blinked in surprise. Apologies? “Why do you want to apologize?”

Wonwoo puffed. “I used to be scared for you. Now I’m not.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being fearful, Wonwoo.”

“There isn’t, but I was so fearful I limited you to do things you wanted to do,” responded Wonwoo quietly. He sank his teeth into his cigarette and blew a few rings which rose to the leather ceiling of his car. “I’m sorry for taking that right away from you.”

Seungcheol suppressed a smile from taking over his lips. He and Wonwoo made up one interminably bizarre pair, but they had their noteworthy moments. Beneath the cool demeanor and the ease of flow in their conversations, there was something that bound them tighter than they ever would know. There was a mutual appreciation of one another, and one’s idiotic deeds or misguided opinions were solely done under the vision of protecting the other. Seungcheol had saved Wonwoo from wrong decisions many times, and Wonwoo had saved Seungcheol from broken hearts many times. Even though Wonwoo was one of the people who annoyed him the most—a close contender to Soonyoung, who just never shut up—Seungcheol did care about him.

“It’s okay, Wonwoo,” he replied. “I know you were just looking out for me. That in itself I am grateful for.”

Wonwoo retracted the cigarette from his mouth and tipped the ashes into the tray. “It’s just—Yoon Jeonghan, you know? Huge celebrity, bad reputation. To me, he seemed like bad news for you. I was just trying to look out for you.” He lifted his gaze and put on a small smile. “Now he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Seungcheol could sense his face reddening. “Nah. He’s just—he’s just—”

Wonwoo cocked a brow upwards in a challenging manner. Seungcheol struggled for a while before surrendering.

“Alright. You win.”

A laugh escaped Wonwoo’s lips and he nodded victoriously. “If Jeonghan had turned out to be as ed up as I thought he was, the only thing I would have thanked him for was bringing Mingyu into my life. And he changed you. He really did.”

Seungcheol inhaled and exhaled. He craned his neck in Wonwoo’s direction, pursing his lips. “He listened to me. He showed me things. He reminded me that I’m not stuck in one situation. That I play a part.” He paused. “I hope he plays his.”

“Then never stop acting,” finalized Wonwoo. “I can tell he means a lot to you and Chan. So, I’m going to give you probably the best or stupidest advice ever.”

Intrigued, Seungcheol leaned forward conspiratorially. Wonwoo peered straight into his eyes and whispered, silently yet sternly.

“Don’t ever let him go. I know I always assess your potential boyfriends, but Jeonghan’s different. I know it. You’ll get something out of him instead of just you giving everything you’ve got while getting nothing back. It may seem far-fetched with everything’s that going on, but he’ll come back. He loves you. He’ll come back.”

Seungcheol wanted to emit a scoff, but all that came out was a mere mumble. “He doesn’t love me.”

“If he doesn’t, I think he’s close.” At last Wonwoo detached his lips from his stick and dropped it to the tray, permitting it to submerge in the ashes. “I think whatever he has for you now is enough for him to come running back.”

Seungcheol heaved a pitiful sigh. “Why am I hoping that you’re right?”

“Because you feel the same way,” Wonwoo uttered.

Seungcheol’s heart accelerated. Did he? It had been a long, long time since he stored any sorts of romantic feelings for someone. Jeonghan was important—that much he knew. He missed Jeonghan—that much he knew. He missed him so much his heart was grueling and aching and grieving.

But was it worth it? Was he willing to throw himself out there again and risk whatever improvement he had accomplished with Chan? Even though Jeonghan was the very first person who initiated him to do particular things instead of wallowing in extreme guilt, could Jeonghan take their happiness away also? What if Jeonghan’s continuous absence for his dedication to his career and celebrity life would destroy him or, even worse, Chan? If he was intent on doing this, he was not sacrificing only his heart but Chan’s also.

He had faith in Jeonghan. He was a good person, no matter how many persons he punched in the face or how many nasty cancer sticks he smoked. He had a good heart and a great personality and a great smile and he wanted Jeonghan to see that for his sake.

“Don’t ever let him go,” he repeated.

“Exactly.” Wonwoo nodded. “Not everyone can score a celebrity.”

“Not everyone can score their manager, either.” Seungcheol managed a grin.

Wonwoo rolled his eyes and opened his side of the window. “Shut up, Seungcheol,” he grumbled as he fished another cigarette stick and flamed it with a green lighter.

Seungcheol chuckled in amusement while he poked Wonwoo’s shoulder. “Come on, Wonwoo. I know you miss him so much you’re thinking of leaving Rio to wherever he is right now.”

Wonwoo parted his lips for an argument but closed it right away. He turned to Seungcheol with his lighter still ablaze and wagged it dangerously in Seungcheol’s face. “Yes, I am. Now shut up before I set you on fire.”

“Calm your horses, Wonwoo,” spoke Seungcheol between his guffaws. “We should form a Heartbreak Club or something.”

Wonwoo snickered.“The first to apply would probably be Soonyoung, if Jeonghan ever wants to have a comeback. But he never stops talking, does he?”

“He’s as good in talking as he is in dancing,” Seungcheol responded. “There are times when he’s tolerable.”

“You better hope that time is now.” Wonwoo aimed his cigarette on his wristwatch. “It’s almost five. Let’s get you going.”

Wonwoo’s car lurched forward and stopped abruptly after eating a few kilometers. Seungcheol let himself out, but surprisingly, Wonwoo followed suit. The black-haired man emitted a chuckle as he noticed Wonwoo ambling closer.

“If you want to go inside and walk down memory lane, I suggest—”

His words were taken away from his lips when Wonwoo’s arms opened and circled around him in a brotherly hug. Seungcheol could not remember the last time they had hugged like this, a brief yet memorable hug that always kept both of them anchored to their spots. Seungcheol clasped the back of Wonwoo’s dress shirt before they pulled away from each other. He lengthened his arm to pat Seungcheol’s shoulder.

“You know that I’m proud of you, right? For taking this leap of faith, overcoming your fears. It’s never too late, Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol could not rid himself of a broad smile. Wonwoo had never immersed himself in stating his feelings straightforwardly and never delved far in offering any piece of emotional advices. He was never very vocal, but that was a trait Seungcheol was often appreciative of. Now to be hearing direct words coming out of Wonwoo’s mouth increased his respect toward his good friend, only friend for years.

“I am too, of you. First boyfriend since high school. Way to go, Jeon Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo cackled for a moment and slid back into his car. The Lexus zoomed off with a blaring, friendly honk and Seungcheol waved his hand in farewell before hiking the steps to the dance studio.

Being regularly present in Big Steps Little Steps had generated a few benefits of its own. He had established a friendly acquaintance with the gum-munching receptionist, who was always a more pleasant conversational partner than Soonyoung but not Jeonghan. He had befriended the street vendors outside Big Steps Little Steps, including an especially affable coxinha vendor who filled him in on the latest Yoon Jeonghan gossip he had elucidated from his variety of customers (the most recent one being Jeonghan had personally victimized ten men and four had filed suits against him). He constantly stood sentinel over the one-way mirror, his eyes capturing every moment of the crew’s rehearsal as the coldness he had felt since the first day he was reunited here with Chan seeped deeper, harsher through his bones.

Four forty-five found Seungcheol behind the one-way mirror, shivering in his internal chill as his gaze swept the practice room thoroughly. The girl members of the crew were performing a series of complicated contemporary moves, while Chan was in the corner, bobbing his head along to the distant music, awaiting his solo turn.

After a seemingly long wait, Chan finally stepped forward. Confidence was embedded in his face as he swayed his warm-up, arms waving and legs spinning in such sinuous motion Seungcheol had his breath taken already. Chan popped and turned and twirled with every joint, muscles broadening and bones stretching and the story begun.

A sudden, dreaded departure was the first point of the story. The traveler had flown his way out of their dwelling, putting a stop to his well-loved respite, leaving a broken father and a devastated son in his wake. Each crevice of Chan’s face mapped out the blended emotions that flooded him: morose, disappointment, concern. They were all prominent in his every move as he plunged down to the floor and let out a throaty scream. Then his leg kicked upward and the story continued.

They were lost. They were with no guidance whatsoever. They were clinging to each other so tightly, afraid to tip to the side and lose their balance. The father emerged as a gallant figure, who objected the duties along with his fears to himself instead of tossing them to another person like he usually did to save himself. He was a tenacious leader yet an affectionate parent. He was there, he was present, he was always prepared to pull him into a soft, calming embrace and kiss him good night.

And he was forgiven.

The tone of the tale changed to that of gratitude. Chan leaped and whirled and expanded himself—a self bursting with thankfulness for a loving father, for never taking a step away from him and abandoning him in a cold, solitary abyss. The best version of a figure he could have ever hoped for. The most supportive yet the most hurt person he had ever known in his short life. In one split second, their eyes landed on each other, and Chan plastered on his megawatt smile as if he were saying, “This one’s for you, Daddy.”

A splotch of remorse and self-despise tainted the story, of Chan punishing himself for voluntarily bringing havoc in the family when all he should have done was understood. He should have understood the position they were trapped in, he should have been there for his father, because young or old, short or tall, sturdy or decrepit, pain comes. Pain comes with its enormous ability to whip people into its suffocating, agonizing blanket.

But what was done was done. There was no use of storing regrets or housing worries. All that was left was a promise. An absolute promise built on devotion and admiration and love.

And the story was completed.

The second Chan exited the doors of the practice room, Seungcheol dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around the boy in a hug so tight Chan emitted a little gasp of surprise. The tears never arrived, but the pain and the joy and the relief had already been there. They were thriving and spreading and ever so absorbing.

“I’m sorry,” Seungcheol whispered in Chan’s ear. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry…”

Chan hugged his father back and pressed his cheek against his, his words warm on Seungcheol’s ear.

“I forgive you, Daddy. You’ve always been forgiven.”

They decided to skip the subway this time and journeyed home on foot. They knew it would be grueling and overwhelming and their legs had a high prospect of falling off the next morning, but neither of them paid any care. Seungcheol stumbled home while spilling incomprehensible groans and grunts, chanting “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” all the while. Chan clutched Seungcheol’s arm tightly, his words loud and clear in Seungcheol’s eardrum.

“That day last year, Dad, I really let go of everything. To me, it didn’t feel real if I didn’t dance about it. I’m really sorry, Dad, I should’ve explained afterward but I was too scared. I’m sorry I was scared. I knew you were, too. So I figured, if I couldn’t say it with my lips, could I say it with my body? And I don’t want you to stop coming, Dad. It really makes me happy when you see me dancing. And I want you to feel happy too. That’s why I chose to dance about that today. I was so nervous. I was lucky that you were with Uncle Wonwoo because I felt like I was going to pass out. If you had watched from the beginning, I probably wouldn’t have been able to do it. But I did it. And I forgive you, Daddy. Please don’t be sad anymore. I’m sad if you’re sad.”

Seungcheol wanted to express how he felt. Oh, how he yearned to. But none of his body parts were cooperating with him. His lips felt cold against his teeth and his hands never stopped trembling and he felt so much, so much of everything he wouldn’t know where to begin if he did have the capability to speak. Though he knew that Chan could dance about anything, about spaghetti or a silver Prius or Guns N’ Roses’ second album and he would still attend practice and watch his son.

They entered the threshold of their apartment over three hours later. Their arrival was full of Seungcheol gasping for air and death-gripping onto every slab of furniture, so they had humble bowls of cereals as their late dinner. Seungcheol carried Chan to his bed and draped the comforter over him soon after. Even with his droopy eyes and exhausted limbs, Chan still whispered, “I forgive you, Dad. I really do. I forgive you. Let’s be really happy from now on.”

Seungcheol managed a smile and nodded his head in approval. “I love you, Chan,” he muttered softly as he leaned in to press a long, heartfelt kiss on Chan’s forehead, Chan’s nose, and Chan’s cheeks. “Thank you for being my son.”

Chan giggled. “Thank you for being my dad.”

The boy was long asleep after nine, yet Seungcheol remained inside the blue bedroom. His senses continued to explode with every imaginable emotion as he took in the sight of his sleeping son, breathing timely with the beating of his heart. Seungcheol propped his spine against the papered wall, stretching his legs while his free hand caressed Chan’s hair. He continued to feel everything. No tears fell.

At ten fifty-three, his phone rang in his pocket. With a limp hand, Seungcheol extracted it and read the caller’s ID.

It was Jeonghan.

“Seungcheol!” he shouted from the other end and Seungcheol felt as if he could melt right on the spot at the sound of Jeonghan’s throaty, mellifluous voice. “I just landed in Rio this afternoon! I saw you! I was on the way to your place when I saw you—and Chan—walking on the street! You two looked so tired—are you two alright? What’s wrong? I was in my limo but ing traffic jam so I couldn’t catch up with you and you didn’t look like you were in a good shape to receive phone calls—are you alright, Cheol? Hello? I’m running—to your place—wait for me—the password is still Debbie Harry’s birthdate, right? Hello?”

Seungcheol tried his best to croak a “Yes.” Jeonghan exhaled in relief.

“I miss you. I miss you so much, Cheol. You can’t even imagine—what I’ve been through. I wish you were there with me. Every day—I wish you were there. I miss you, Choi Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol swallowed a lump in his throat as he compelled himself to speak. He had to exert his voice now. He had to set aside tsunami after tsunami of emotions and focus on Jeonghan on the other line, Jeonghan talking to him, Jeonghan missing him and wishing he was there every day.

“I miss you much, much more,” he whispered. “And Jeonghan. I did it. I faced my fear.”

Jeonghan sounded shocked. “You did?”

“I did,” Seungcheol confirmed. He was starting to find his tempo, albeit it was slow and sprinkled with intervals. Deep breaths and pull the voice out of your throat. Let him listen. “I thought it would be another traumatizing experience, but it didn’t. It was… liberating, to see him dance. As if he wasn’t the only one being set free. I was too.”

He paused. The serene, overpowering moment was ruined when flashbacks he no longer wanted but needed to remember rained on him. They pushed him, drove him, urged him to breathe out the words, to make himself listen.

“Jihoon was different than any other guys I’ve been with. At first. He was caring, loyal, and he really loved Chan. Chan loved him too. But I loved him more. I loved Jihoon more than I did my son.”

Snapshots of the past were embedding themselves to his mind, forcing him to remember and remember as they played over and over in his head. His voice became throaty, as if all the joy had been out of him the minute a single syllable came out of his mouth. His words were quick and hot, and so were his tears. They finally fell.

“I always wanted to love someone. To give my heart to somebody. I thought Jihoon was the perfect fit. I used to disregard Chan a lot, because I didn’t believe a kid could bring me the same amount of happiness that I would surely feel in a romantic relationship. And—and I was so stupid. I was such a ing idiot.”

A static sound was heard from Jeonghan’s end, along with the swish of a door being opened. Seungcheol could hear his footfalls in both their phone line and in reality, which caused him to stop his words and halt his breathing. He was going to see Jeonghan. Jeonghan was going to be there. He let his phone plummet to the ground. Jeonghan was going to be there. Jeonghan was—

And there he was. His blonde hair was disheveled, strands sticking out all over the place. His face was red and bathed in glistening sweat, yet he was still the only person Seungcheol found most beautiful. His phone was still pressed against his ear, and then Jeonghan went down on his knees, allowing his phone to slip carelessly off his fingers as he wrapped his arms around Seungcheol’s shoulders and rested his chin against Seungcheol’s head.

It was warm. Jeonghan was warm and Seungcheol expected the tsunami would dissipate and vanish, but it didn’t. It developed, it flourished into more violent splashes and burbles that took all of his frayed tendons and bones but Jeonghan saved him, Jeonghan held him tight in his embrace and never let him go. Don’t ever let him go.

“We fought a lot, Jihoon and I. I was so desperate to fix things between us that I forgot about Chan. I put too much of my time and energy to Jihoon. I kept visiting him at his office, staying there for hours, leaving Chan alone at home. We both kept arguing on top of our lungs with Chan just in the next room. Ultimately, he left. He left me alone. I was so devastated, J-Jeonghan. So ing devastated. It took a long time for me to be functional again. And when I-I did, Chan was broken as ever.”

His droplets of tears were too bountiful to dam. They cascaded on his cheeks and wetted his shirt. They gathered in the corners of his eyes and highlighted its chocolate hue with horror. Jeonghan’s arms wrapped tighter around his shoulders, and despite himself, Seungcheol could hear Jeonghan’s cries. Jeonghan’s withheld bawls, Jeonghan’s hiccups as he tried to diminish his sobs.

“I hated myself for it. I lost Chan in favor of someone who left. So I promised myself to always p-put Chan first. Because he’s the one who matters the most. He’s my source of happiness. I never d-did anything I liked outside my jobs because I didn’t feel like I deserved them. After all I’d done to Chan. I didn’t feel like I deserved all the happy and sad memories w-with Jihoon because Chan was rarely in them.”

Seungcheol willed himself to open his eyes. Jeonghan’s face was now pale and drenched in tears. Seungcheol could not bear to see it without shedding more droplets, because the sight of Jeonghan crying only added to his already incredible amount of pain even more. His fingers then found Jeonghan’s, and he tightened them together, and he bowed his head down, allowing the memories to stab him in the chest and empty his veins and rip his flesh apart.

“That day, when he first auditioned… it hurt me. It hurt me so much, Jeonghan. I felt like after all I did, he still thought of me as t-that evil dad who ruined everything, who couldn’t take care of him enough. It ruined me so much. You have to know. You have to know, J-Jeonghan, because nobody… nobody else knows…”

Jeonghan let out a small cry and coiled his arms even closer. Seungcheol obliged, curling into himself and draping an arm around Jeonghan’s waist, sobbing his pain on his shoulder. The pain was clawing away. The pain was eating everything he had desperately and determinedly build up and they were toppling apart, detached and disorganized, and all was left was him, bare and hurt and distrusting of himself.

It hurt so much.

Yet they were given time. Time flowed and passed and went by as they held onto each other, shaking figures against taped paper walls. They were given time and their tears evaporated on the flushed skin of their cheeks, their restrained sobs subsided, and their torsos settled into normalcy. Their breathing, however, consumed more time, and they spent the hours grasping onto skin and tendons and bones, heaving and puffing and exhaling until their respiration became unanimously steady and their heartbeats synced as one and the warmth descended upon them inside the blue bedroom.

“Why do we always cry whenever we hold each other?” Seungcheol questioned.

Jeonghan let out a small chuckle. “Because we misunderstood our own selves, yet we understand the other.”

 

---

 

Two A.M. marked their settlement in the kitchen. Seungcheol crafted a mug of steaming black coffee for Jeonghan and a cup of cappuccino fused with a splash of Baileys for himself. They sat opposite each other on the stools of the kitchen island. Their hands were now laced, their palms resting on the marble surface as they both sipped their beverages.

Jeonghan felt relief wash over him again. The taste of his coffee was not too strong and not too weak—it was just the way he loved it. After weeks of bland coffee, it was absolutely delightful to return to something familiar. To return to Seungcheol.

Both of their palms were warm. Jeonghan reveled in the feeling, shutting his eyes and breathing in stability and feeling Seungcheol’s skin against his. He opened his eyes and he found Seungcheol peering at him intently, seriously, and affectionately.

“What?” Jeonghan asked in a small voice while he set his mug down on the island.

Seungcheol curved up a smile and the inside of Jeonghan’s palm. “It’s happiness to have you here with me.”

A flush of red sprouted on Jeonghan’s cheeks and his heartbeat quickened and his fingers tightened. “It is mine, too. I love having you around.”

Seungcheol’s smile grew wider, and in it Jeonghan spotted the numerous possibilities they could embark on: They could stay together, the three of them, a joyful family; they could travel the world together, the three of them, a joyful family. But then it faltered, withered, and fell. Jeonghan lost his breath and soon his heartbeat was quickening for a completely disparate reason.

“What’s going to happen to you?” he asked, terrified. “What’s going to happen to us? You’ve still got that scandal to take care of, and I’m here, and Chan’s here, and—”

“I’m going to quit,” Jeonghan cut off. “Resign. Retire. Whatever it is. I will end my contract after this trouble is all sorted out.”

Seungcheol looked bewildered. “But—that means you’re dropping your whole life. Why would you quit?”

“I’m quitting my career, Seungcheol,” responded Jeonghan. “Not music.”

Seungcheol’s jaw dropped. “Are—are you serious?”

Jeonghan smiled in amusement and nodded firmly. “I am.”

Silence stretched between them for a few long moments. Jeonghan had been ecstatic anticipating his reaction. But now, it was not a satisfying one so far. Seungcheol appeared to be collecting his thoughts, his brows knitted in concentration. Jeonghan exhaled deeply and was about to take another sip of coffee when Seungcheol piped up.

“Why would you quit? Singing out there is your whole life. It’s what you know. It’s where you belong. And don’t get me wrong”—Seungcheol tilted his head to the side with a knowing expression on his face—“I love this. I love having you here and being together with you. But… aren’t we in different worlds? You’re a big celebrity and I’m just a dad. I’m nothing more than that.”

Jeonghan was caught in surprise. He did not see this coming. He shook his head so swiftly and passionately and he leaned forward to Seungcheol.

“It is my life, but I’m not enjoying it. I’m not as happy as I was singing out there than when I’m here with you. That explains everything, does it not? And we are not in different worlds, Seungcheol. Being a dad is ing amazing as it is, though you’re more than just that. Superstars and single dads do mix.”

A flicker of doubt glimmered across Seungcheol’s face and Jeonghan found himself in a state of tumult. Was this actually happening? Was Seungcheol doubting the probability of them being together no matter what his heart told him? Was he going to reject Jeonghan and send him on his way back to Seoul? Jeonghan could not, would not be able to handle that much pressure and refusal. He had to convince Seungcheol, he had to—

“But… there are so many differences between us,” stated Seungcheol as he bit his lips. “What if we can’t overcome them, Jeonghan? Because—because I don’t belong in your world, and I can’t fit in there, I—”

Jeonghan’s grip on their fingers grew so instantaneously tight Seungcheol halted his speech. A smile made its way to the long-haired man’s lips as he caressed Seungcheol’s thumb with his own.

“You don’t need to fit in, Seungcheol,” he replied. “I’ll build my world around you.”

 

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They cuddled on the white sofa in the sitting room, which remained warm and dented and smelled of Jeonghan’s undoubtedly familiar scent, of combined mint and ink and a dab of ash. Their limbs crossed each other’s and their bodies were stuck together and Seungcheol had his face against Jeonghan’s blonde locks, inhaling the scent he knew best, holding the person he loved most.

“I could switch flights all the time,” Jeonghan chattered, his voice soft and velvety smooth as it rumbled against Seungcheol’s chest. “Red-eyes from Korea are not so bad. I’ll be here every night and I’ll go again every morning, like a normal adult working office hours.”

“Just take care of your problems first,” said Seungcheol sleepily. “I can wait. We can all wait.”

“But I want to—oh, look! The sun’s coming up!”

Seungcheol lifted his gaze. The sun indeed was rising from the horizon to the sky above, which was a gorgeous mix of gold and blue and grey, parting its way to the side as the rays of light stabbed through. The glass walls captured each moment perfectly, and even though the electric keyboard installed in front of it blocked the magnificent sight a few times (“Jeonghan, why are you such an idiot to place it there?” “I got your consent! You said it was okay!”), they still embraced the beauty of the view and each other, fluttering their eyes close when the light began to invade the sitting room.

Letting out a yawn, Seungcheol tilted his head against Jeonghan’s. When he gradually pushed back his eyelids, Jeonghan was already gazing into his orbs, a small smile playing on his lips. Seungcheol offered a smile of his own and pecked the tip of Jeonghan’s nose, which he welcomed with a jubilant chuckle.

“Cheol?”

“Yes, Madman?”

“Would it be a bad thing if I said that I’m in love with you?”

Seungcheol lowered his head to meet Jeonghan’s bold yet anxious eyes.

“No,” he answered. “My sleeves are wiped clean.”

Jeonghan blinked for a moment before he gasped noisily. “My lyrics! You read them! Damn you, Lee Seokmin—”

Seungcheol put an end to his words by claiming Jeonghan’s lips with his.

Oh, was it heavenly. Both of them closed their eyes in slow motion as they responded to the shift of each other’s lips eagerly, Jeonghan inching closer, moving to coil his arms around Seungcheol’s neck, Seungcheol’s palm connecting behind Jeonghan’s waist, and Seungcheol loved him so, so much—

“Yeaaaay!”

The two separated themselves from each other as soon as they had joined. Chan was jumping on the carpeted staircase, his messy bed hair bobbing along and his pajamas sliding down with every movement he made. His hands clapped together in resonant slaps and he threw his distinct megawatt smile in their direction.

“Jeonghan, can I call you Papa from now on?”

 

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at this rate, i can’t write anything less than 20 microsoft word pages—AND I KNOW. IT TOOK ME 120947124 YEARS TO UPDATE. I APOLOGIZE SINCERELY FOR THE WAIT. my writing slump was intense and everlasting but it’s finally over!

hopefully i’m back on track with my writing because there’s still so much coming up. i plan to write a sequel to this as well, but it surely won’t be as long. there are actually other prequels/sequels waiting to be written along with new pieces and i’m just bursting with ideas and reveling in procrastination.

i may not be that active on AFF, so do hit me up here, here, or here if you have any questions (or just want to punch me in the face for my sluggish updates)! there may be spoilers for future works, if i can’t shut up. AND AI IF YOU’RE READING THIS TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK OKAY I’M GONNA GO HIDE IN A HOLE B YE

meanie and soonseok have seriously swept me off my feet. you might see more of them in the next chapters!

as always, thank you for the upvotes, kaiso_11, KMinPark45, Mia_miyeon, byeolie_, americanocoffees, kim_hyunkyo05, _positivevibes, mavmunk, bonvoyagewho, kukunoona, onrainy-day, PikaSugaKookieZelo, jellyvivien, IceGrayMelody, moon_96, Ichael_Tan, xxchocooo, TooFabulous, ehyocoups, YeMinWook, larasatinita, stealthfire, Sprinklepink, Banana654321, jammyxmudkip, schmoopy_17, blue_angel_wings30, bunnycheek, banana-milk-lover, whitestormsky, haengbokhaeya, wonwho, Kpop56, ambi1228, akosiken, meanieforlife, xXmysteriousXx, EgoStorm, and floweroone!