*

Jackson wakes up to the sound of an American newscaster softly blabbing about a game of cricket. The sound seems to come from far, as if Jackson has his head undersea and the man looms just over the surface of the water, his words muffled. Jackson’s hangover hits him before the sunlight does, and he groans as he pulls the thick white covers over his face. When he dares to peer open his eyes, his gaze falls on the tanned skin of Mark’s belly, and yesterday night comes back to him like a wave. Jackson moans softly as he closes his eyes again, resting one arm over his forehead. A pang strikes through his head (his headache is always the worst when he’s drunk wine) and he wills himself back to sleep. It’s warm underneath the covers, and the gentle rustle of Mark’s hand plucking at the sheets combined with the newscaster’s deep voice has Jackson drifting in and out of darkness for a minute or five, not quite sure whether he’s awake or asleep.

When he opens his eyes again the space next to him is empty, the sheets having been pushed back. The television is still on, though now a Chinese variety show crashes into the bedroom, comical sound effects and canned laughter reaching Jackson’s ears. He sits up, the sheets pooled around his waist. At this moment, Mark appears from the bathroom. He’s pulling a sky-blue sweater over his head, blonde hair sticking up at the sides. Jackson’s attention automatically turns to the other man.

‘Oh,’ Mark breathes, surprised, ‘you’re awake.’

’Yeah, but at what cost?’ Jackson grumbles, pressing one hand to his forehead as another pang strikes through his head, and Mark laughs. The slender man moves to the vanity table, combing through his hair quickly, one, two, three, before he moves to sit on the edge of the bed. Jackson can only see his back as he bends down to pick up his shoe, slide it onto his feet. As it dawns on him what Mark is doing, a feeling of disappointment comes over him.

’You’re leaving?’ he asks, trying to keep his voice steady, but it comes out too rough, too frail. It’s unfair to ask Mark to stay – Jackson knows this too – but he’d enjoyed last night and the brief moment of intimacy it had brought to him. He doesn’t think it’s unfair he wants to draw that out just a little longer.

Mark turns around to flash Jackson a smile, before he bends down again.

’Getting us some breakfast,’ he explains to the floor, and Jackson can feel the dread being lifted from his shoulders, ‘or do buff guys like you not eat in the morning?’

‘Not when they’ve got a hot blonde in their bed,’ Jackson grins, pushing back the sheets and crawling over to where Mark is sitting to let his arms snake around the other man’s waist, press a kiss to his neck. The other man laughs, this time louder and with his head tipped back, before sliding out of Jackson’s grip.

‘I’m glad I decided to go last night,’ Mark smiles, staring down at Jackson lying curled in the blankets. He has his head propped up with one hand, legs dangling high up in the air. The only thing that’s missing, Mark muses, is a large 80’s phone, his finger twirling around the cord. ‘You know, it wasn’t a coincidence.’

‘What do you mean?’ Jackson asks, puzzled.

‘I’d seen your name on the guest list,’ Mark admits, his cheeks heating up slightly, ‘’Jackson Wang, the photographer’ – hard to forget,’ he grins before continuing, ‘I’m not really one for parties, otherwise… but I figured I might run into you.’

For a moment, Jackson feels triumphant at the thought of Mark wanting to see him so much the other would actively seek him out; feels happy and relieved that he isn’t alone in that desire. Honestly speaking, Mark is just Jackson’s type. Cheeky, chill, really ing hot (and he’d always had a thing for the lanky ones). He talks easy with Mark, laughs even more easily. On the people front, Jackson is no stranger to conflict. He has bumped into obstacles before, mostly thanks to his outgoing nature and loud character. With most people, Jackson feels like he’s there to entertain and make them laugh, so when he finds someone who can make him laugh without making him feel like he has to return the favour, he savours that.

Yet, there’s a gloominess gnawing at his mind. He doesn’t know quite what Mark wants from him, but he doubts it’s anything that would fit his life as it is right now (and he isn’t thinking about changing anything soon). Besides, it’s not like he has anything to give to Mark, and he’s never been one to deceive. He doesn’t want to say what he knows is right; but he knows he has to. So he sits up straight and looks the other in the eye.

‘Listen, Mark,’ he begins, pausing briefly, ‘this was really great and you’re a nice guy. But I’m leaving for Paris in four days, y’know.’

Mark looms over him, expression unreadable. A lock of hair sticks up straight, curved up to the ceiling in a comical way. Underneath his blue sweater, one of the white collars of his shirt is tucked in wrongly. Jackson feels a strong urge to correct it. Instead he hugs his knees, suddenly feeling too for this conversation.

‘So?’ comes the retort from the taller man.

‘So I don’t want to give you any wrong ideas.’ Jackson concludes lamely.

Something in Mark’s jaw tightens. The corners of his lips curve down. Then there’s something that flashes through his eyes and no – no, no, no, Jackson doesn’t like that at all. He sits at the edge of the bed, his gaze cast to the floor, wishing he could put the words back in his mouth. Yet he knows that wouldn’t be fair. This is for the best, he thinks, but then why does it feel so horrible?

‘I get it,’ Mark says then, voice all chipper like the mood hadn’t soured just a moment ago and it makes Jackson feel even worse. A moment lapses. Neither of them say anything, neither of them dare to look the other in the eye. Both wants more answers, but there’s not enough time in this conversation for all the things to say.

‘So,’ Mark breathes finally, ‘are you a coffee or tea kind of guy?’

‘Whatever you have is fine by me.’ Jackson replies, and with a quick nod Mark is walking out of the hotel room, the door shutting behind him with a clean click.

Jackson lets himself fall back onto the bed with a soft thud, relieved to be alone when he’s feeling this miserable. His suit jacket and white shirt are still scattered on the floor, the remains of last night, and suddenly Jackson considers sneaking out before Mark returns, but even just the thought makes him feel like a grade A . He kicks his feet against the headboard, groaning in frustration. He already dreads the uncomfortable silence that will fill breakfast, the awkward goodbye that will follow.

‘This is why I don’t do this ,’ Jackson mutters under his breath. He roughly shoves the white sheets aside and locks himself in the bathroom, vowing to never get stuck in a one night stand again.

*

Paris Fashion Week is a whirlwind of colours and noises. A woman saunters past him, her dress blueberry and her oversized sunglasses black-and-white. They remind Jackson of a bug’s eyes. In the corner of the room, far removed from the buffet, a group of female models stand giggling about a story one of them is telling. The narrator’s voice is deep and her language is harsh, her thick Russian accent sticking awkwardly around the English syllables. Their necks are long and slight like a deer’s, their deep blue eyes alluring, and for a moment Jackson actually wishes he was there to take pictures of them. It’s surreal, being in a room with so many people that are so beautiful, all absurdly tall and made up to the nines. He feels like he’s entered a different world, one that only exists in paintings and high-end fashion magazines. One of the girls gets called for hair. As she blows a kiss to her friends and walks away, Jackson snaps back to his senses.

‘So all of these,’ the woman next to him explains, her hands moving over a group of Dior bags neatly arranged in lines on the table in front of him, their colours fluorescent and many, ‘and then after, you start on make-up. Ask my colleague, Francesca Schiprowski. Okay?’

‘Who is she?’ Jackson asks, uselessly looking around the room to try and find someone that could possibly fit the name, as if his eye would fall on someone and his mind would instantly know: this was Francesca Schiprowski. The woman points her finger to one of the vanity tables, indicating a slight and short blonde woman of middle-age who’s poking a brunette in the eyes with black kohl.

‘Francesca Schiprowski. Okay? Okay.’ The woman repeats, and then she decides her job’s over, leaving Jackson alone with the ghastly designer bags. He watches her leave, her blob of red curls bobbing up and down as she walks, before he puts one foot on the stool in front of him and positions his camera.

*

His friend’s Paris model apartment is just as awful as the Milan one had been, but at least here Kunpimook has a room to himself. Jackson browses through the pictures in his portfolio, photographs taken by some of the best in the world, all making him feel inferior and untalented. He closes the map, slides it to the far corner of the coffee table. At this moment Kunpimook returns from the kitchen, hunched over as he wrenches the door open with his back, two cups of coffee in his hands. Somewhere in the back, a Chinese girl curses at someone on the phone, her profanity fading away as the door closes.

‘Pretty cosy,’ Jackson muses, looking around the cramped room of barely 9 m² in which his friend has managed to squeeze all of his belongings.

‘ off.’ Kunpimook kindly tells him as he sits down and shoves Jackson’s mug towards his side of the table. Jackson smiles as he lifts the mug up to his lips, takes a sip. Kunpimook sprawls himself over the chair, his back leaning on one rest, his legs splayed over the other, and looks out the window. Half of the view is blocked by an old white townhouse, a rusty brown pipe crawling over its bricks, but the other side shows Paris in half-darkness, the moonlight casting a yellow glow over the low buildings all crouching down beneath the brightness of Montmartre that looms over them from up on its hill, buzzing with excitement and artistry.

‘Can I take a picture?’ Jackson asks, following Kunpimook’s gaze. The other shrugs, disinterested. As Jackson gets out his camera, he sits up slightly.

‘I thought you were too hipster for digital cameras,’ Kunpimook notes.

‘Had to use one for this job.’ Jackson explains, ignoring the hidden insult only because he knows it riles Kunpimook up. Sure enough, his friend casts him an annoyed gaze, eyes fierce with the want to say something biting and more upsetting (not anything truly upsetting, not when they were just playing around like this), but then he waits a little too long and the timing is gone.

‘Hand me that blue tub from the nightstand,’ Kunpimook orders. Jackson rummages through a galleon of crèmes and gels and perfumes, before his hand falls on a small pink-with-purple clay mask and Kunpimook tells him ‘that one’. As his friend starts to smear a load of purple goo on his face, looking absolutely ridiculous, Jackson can’t help but laugh.

‘You look like an idiot,’ he tells Kunpimook, who remains completely serious, between high-pitched giggles.

‘I have to get jobs, boy.’ Comes the other’s matter-of-fact reply, ignoring any humour the situation may have. The lack of reaction calms Jackson down. Hysterical laughter is never much fun if it isn’t shared.

‘Yeah, whatever pays the rent,’ He snorts, rolling his eyes. Jackson looks around the mess of a room, hoping his eye might fall on a bag of crisps or two, a roll of biscuits maybe, but fails to find anything. He wishes Kunpimook’s roommate, Yugyeom, was here – the other had always been a better host. ‘You have anything to eat? I didn’t have dinner and I’m starving.’

Kunpimook stares at him with a glare that could kill a man.

‘You’re in a model apartment.’ He deadpans.

‘Okay, no food,’ Jackson shrugs. He lets himself fall back into his chair, sighing deeply. ‘Man, you’re the worst host,’ he complains, frowning at his friend, ‘at least let me make out with one of your hot model friends, then.’

This time it’s Kunpimook’s turn to roll his eyes.

‘They’re not into guys! Not all male models are gay,’ he protests, ‘besides, I wouldn’t have thought you would want to hook up with anyone right now.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ Jackson snarls. He has no idea what Kunpimook is on about, yet the other sends him a look that means he somehow should. ‘What?’ he barks.

‘Who the hell is Mark Tuan then?’ Kunpimook asks, and Jackson’s blood runs cold. He has no idea how Kunpimook knows Mark’s name since he hadn’t dared tell anyone about the other man. He couldn’t even if he had wanted to; it was far too complicated. He was scared people would find out how selfish he was, wanting Mark but not wanting him at the same time. Frankly, he had tried not to think of Mark after he had left the hotel room like a coward. The other had been unbearably kind until the end to someone as undeserving as him.

Some of the panic must show on his face, for Kunpimook quickly adds: ‘Someone called Mark Tuan has sent you, like, five WhatsApp messages. Long ones. With the heart emoji prominently used.’

‘You!’ Jackson cries, offended, pointing his finger at his friend. ‘Stay out of people’s phones!’

He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket in panic at the speed of lightning, opening WhatsApp and dreading to think what else Kunpimook might have read. Jackson didn’t have secrets, but he did have things he would prefer nobody knew. A Safari window hangs open on a particularly spicy gaytube video and Jackson nearly has a fit. He wants to scold Kunpimook for violating his privacy for the umpteenth time, but he knows it’s no use – knows Kunpimook is convinced he has done no wrong at all. So he takes another breath, holds in the anger that threatens to explode.

He returns to WhatsApp, clicks on Mark’s name – his number not recognized yet by the app. Jackson hadn’t thought to change it, hadn’t thought he ever would. He thinks he feels his heart skip a beat.

How’s Paris? The last message asks, followed by a photo of Mark on the trainee’s bench, his shirt reading Beijing 2018, Team USA. His hair seems darker, but his smile remains the same.

Jackson puts his phone away.

‘I have to make a call.’ He tells Kunpimook, and with that he’s walking out of the other’s room, down the creaky stairs and narrow hallways.

*

The phone rings three times before Mark’s voicemail clicks in, and it’s then that Jackson remembers he hadn’t planned on Mark not picking up. He has no idea what to say. Jackson stands underneath a yellow streetlamp in front of Kunpimook’s ratty model apartment, feeling very much like some on the cover of an indie band, staring at the 24-hour supermarket across the street where inside a small Turkish woman sits behind the cash registrar. The bright neon ‘OPEN’ sign blinks at him as he rakes his mind for something to say.

‘Hey, Mark,’ he begins, voice tight. Then he pauses, having no idea where to go next, and slaps himself on the forehead. He feels like a complete idiot. He paces up and down the street, feeling the relief of the cobblestone road through his boots.

‘Hey,’ he tries again, wishing he could delete the message and start all over again. ‘Paris is nice. The weather, it’s um, it’s nice. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Paris, you probably have, but whatever, but I went to the Gare d’Orsay today. It was beautiful. It’s a museum, but I’m sure you knew that. Anyway. How are things in America? Is your training going well?’

Another pause. Now, he knows what he wants to say, but that doesn’t make it easier. Jackson takes a deep breath. He rests his head against the brick wall behind him and stares up to the moon. It hangs thousands of kilometres above him, a gigantic white sphere so bright against the dark of the sky even as it hides behind stringy clouds. It almost hurts his eyes, yet Jackson can’t find it in him to look away.

‘I miss you,’ he manages.