The irony of the entire situation was that his boyfriend was the one who invited me into their life.  Into Kibum’s.  I never would have found Kibum if it weren’t for his boyfriend’s and my mutual interest in getting wasted on weekends.  Sometimes, I liked to think that mutual interest would be the thread Kibum followed to his interest in me, but, unlike the boyfriend, I stopped getting so drunk at these parties.  If Kibum were to kiss me, I wanted to be sober for it.  

This sobriety, unfortunately, has led to many hard revelations—like the fact that wanting to kiss Kibum would never get much farther than that: a want.  Or the fact that I was possibly taking advantage of two friends.

After all, most people don’t realize when they’ve invited a vampire into their home.  If that’s what I was.  That’s how I felt, most of the time, at least.  

I’d arrive at the thresh hold and pause, wincing at the colorful pulses of life emanating from inside the party.  I didn’t totally belong, but there was something here I wanted.  Usually Kibum got the door; he was the more presentable one.  His boyfriend, the drunker one, was usually the first to greet me, though.  He’d pull me in and squeeze my shoulders, yelling for someone to bring me a drink.

Kibum always had this sheepish, apologetic look.  Sometimes his cheeks were even pink, but that might’ve been his allergy to the party.  His smile was always sweet.  The first time I saw it, I didn’t think it could come from a face like his--cold and absent, still and beautiful.  But the best kinds of smiles are the kind that reveal a person, lips parting to the soul.

Before someone could ever bring me a beer, his boyfriend would already be off somewhere else and I would be trying to weasel my way into Kibum’s company for the night.  This is how it started; that guy never had the attention span for either of us, but he was hoping Kibum and I would get along.  And of course we did.

I’d nudge Kibum’s arm and he’d roll his eyes at my shyness and give me a hug.  With his arm slung around me, I’d lean in a bit.  I never said much, but just hoped he’d let me stay.  If the connection was two-sided, as it was in my head, he’d would read it in my eyes and let me.  Always more courteous than his boyfriend, he’d even let me sip his beer.   

“Have I missed much?” I ask, tilting my head up.  

His face can sometimes be so still.  The plains of his cheeks are permanently tattooed with the shadows of his eyelashes.  They’re short, I’d admit.  Like windows with the curtains drawn up, only revealing a darkened room.

He shakes his head a little and sighs. “Just the usual, right?  Same as last weekend.”

It’s illegal to break into someone’s room, and so it feels illegal to want him, dangerous even.  But every time he speaks it’s like sitting on his lawn, hearing loud music that’s trying to be quiet sift out of the gridded screen of his window.  He sings along, also quiet, and I listen carefully for his voice.

Like one of those paper cut-outs of people connected, we stumble from sheer closeness as we walk to the living room.  Laughing at this, I look up to check that he’s smiling, at least.  But everything shuts as his boyfriend comes close, ripping between us like scissors.

“You guys the entertainment for tonight?” he jeers, aggressively giving Kibum’s cheek a .  

I watch Kibum go pink; maybe he’s allergic to , too.  I wish.

Suppressing all of my disgust, I pull back and watch as my force ricochets the boyfriend’s arms back around Kibum.  He fights him off feebly between shy giggles.

“Entertain yourself,” he says with a weak laugh as he stumbles away from him.  “That’s what we’ll be doing!”  

Kibum marches over to me, chin held high but eyes averted from his boyfriend’s, and everyone else’s gaze.  As if we are unworthy.  It’s actually just the pride of a lioness who refuses to let anyone read weakness in them.  

Still, all this surprises me; normally my high with Kibum ends here.  About now, he should be making out with his boyfriend to placate the other’s ego.  Their kisses would hide the fact that two feet over, I might see him as more than entertainment for the night.  

But now, pleasantly, we are arm and arm, marching away from his boyfriend’s mollified reassurances to his friends (“let ‘em do their prudey, emo stuff.  When he’s like that, it’s best not to deal with him--pass me a beer, then?”).  I follow Kibum into his room and he shuts the door almost entirely--leaving just an inch for possible escaping.  The music continues to creep through the walls and he sways.  His eyes are crescents when he dances, looking down because looking up would admit he knew I was watching.  There is no pride, just honesty.  Raw confidence in the comfortableness.  The lioness has gone to sleep and it is just us.

I take his hand and dance with him, our bodies just inches apart.  How many times have we done this?  My head tilts up, his tilts down.  We don’t dare look at each other, let those chemicals react.  We are waves against one another, the same, but never touching.  Tragic magnets, too positive.  

The song switches in and out four or five times.  Sixteen good minutes.  I want to remind him of the first time he danced with me; he held my hands the whole time because he thought I was too shy to dance without him.  The truth is I dance all the time, but something about him makes me not want to act the fool.  Makes me want to be perfect.  I acted pristine and calculated when all I wanted was the drop in the song when he would act the fool with me, when we'd have understanding together to not need to impress anyone else. I was scared to dance, but I felt perfect when we were one.

Then there were some parties where we didn’t dance.  Sometimes we’d talk, just the two of us, anonymous bodies in an overpopulated house.  He usually started conversations, but they died out fast.  Unlike so many others, he’d dwindle his words, hoping to get me to talk.  I never mind talking, but I hate talking about myself.  I always got the idea he had more to say, if he wasn’t so busy accommodating others.

“He’s just a sometimes,” Kibum said suddenly, as if speaking to himself.  

I nod, not trusting myself enough to not add gasoline to that fire.  He goes on, pouring it slowly, in an agonizing drip.  The puddle has creeped across the pavement for weeks now, and my insides are anxious for the explosion.

“He’s a , but I can’t help but be with him, you know?  You can’t help who you like.”  

He sighs and takes a step back, propping himself against his dresser.  I sigh quietly, running a hand through my hair.  My legs lead me to the familiar perch on the corner of his bed, where I tie myself down with the anchor of this typical conversation, and drown.

There is the sweet smile on his face again, but I didn’t put it there.  He hugs himself, imagining the man who did.  

“Sometimes, I wonder if it’s best not to kiss who you care about, you know?” he says with yet another embarrassed laugh.  His thoughts aren’t ridiculous, though, I don’t think.  Just hurtful, hope crushing.  Real. “If you kiss who you care about,” he pressed on, “they know your taste, your wants.  They have your DNA.  And then they will follow you forever until this virus you’ve given one another kills at least one of you.”

I sit still, not sure what to make of that.  I wonder if he really believes that: that kisses kill.  Kibum kisses him an awful lot.  Could love hurt so badly that you’d want to destroy yourself?

“Maybe some people kiss to say what they can’t,” I muse.

“Yeah, maybe.  Maybe that’s why he kisses me so much.”

I grimace.  It’s not what I meant, but it fits.  Maybe he kisses him to say that Kibum is his, and he’ll destroy him before anyone else has him.  Maybe Kibum’s okay with that.

“I dunno,” I mumble, not liking the direction this is taking.  “That’s not ever the vibe I got from kissing, is all I’m trying to say.”

I chance a glance at him, creating one of those horrifying moments where you make eye contact with someone without meaning to--even though you are both clearly trying to look at one another.  But I can’t look away; I wonder if he really sees me.  

Kibum is the first to break the gaze.  He just shakes his head a little, laughing softly.  “Maybe I’m just being stupid.”

My throat is dry.  I want to say he isn’t stupid, just confused.  Or is that me?  I want to say, at least, that not all kisses have to be like that.  Some kisses you give away, and in that messy passion, you are given something back.  I want to say that kisses aren’t the only things that kill you--I know this, because I’ve never kissed the man I care about.  

I am looking at him now, his lips chapped from worry, his short lashes casting long shadows that have run into his running make up.  I can’t hold him, but I’m so close.  I can’t taste him, but I almost can.  I have never kissed Kim Kibum.

And I am trying so damn hard not to let that kill me.

--

A/N: And there it is; a university!au of sorts, in which smol Jjong pining after his friend's boyfriend, trying to say all the right things like a good friend would and not take advantage of their hospitality at these tiring weekly parties, nor does he want to devalue their relationship by making biased accusations even though it seems clear this dude is an but still he is trying not give away the fact that he wants Kibum.  I actually wrote this awhile ago. and I know first person isn't everyone's cup of tea, but I felt that it encapsulated some of Jjong's feelings better. Of course, some may disagree, and the first POV might serve to show I didn't capture Jjong very well at all... regardless, this is just a small one-shot that I'm semi-okay with. It's less experimental or flowery than my other pieces, in some ways. I suppose there could be more to this story, but I'll leave it here for now.  I was talking to a friend and mentioned I think short stories capture feelings, more than content, and that's kind of how most of my one-shots work.