“Aish, never say never!”

“What should I say instead, hyung?”

“In the near future?”

“But I told you – it’ll never happen!”

“You're just being modest.”

“No, I’m being realistic.”

“I still say modest.”

Jinki watched in a state of transient oblivion as his two best friends argued, one wearing a smile of disbelief and joy, the other a grin as coy as it was mischievous. The myopic malaise of lights from the club shadowed both of their faces, occasionally sparking in flutters of red and blue and green, a constant shift, one Jinki could barely configure as he cradled his drink between two nervous hands. He couldn’t imagine painting a night-club; the vibrancy swallowed the entire floor, leaving everything in a constant motion. There was no stasis here, there was no peace. There was music and chatter and a what-the-hell mind-set, something he figured he could never capture, in a painting or otherwise.

“I can barely hear myself think in here!” Minho commented, steering the conversation to grounds Jinki found more understandable. As the basketballer took a swig of his beer, the effeminate man beside him nodded, long eyelashes fluttering as he glanced Jinki’s way.

“What about you, hyung?” the young man asked. “How's… Life?”

Every time Jinki looked at Taemin, all he could see was beauty and cadence; there was no questioning the notion that Taemin’s porcelain skin and wiry physique gave him an unnatural appearance, but it was unnatural in its ethereality, its ardency and warmth. With each move his body breathed a lithe and supple aria, a dancer as poised and graceful as his art. His hair – a wavy platinum that only defined the amiable features of his countenance – gave him the impression of being heaven-sent, and the light make-up he wore, mere tints, gave his eloquence a quality of angelical bliss. His beauty was disproportionate in comparison to the stifling night-club.

“Life’s life,” Jinki shrugged, over the palpitating background din. “Work, sleep, looking after a kid. It's… It's a routine, it never changes.” Jinki took a sip of his drink – something sharp and questionable Kibum had earlier ordered for him – and allowed the liquid to embitter his throat.

“Ah,” Taemin nodded, “I see.”

“Did you finish that painting yet?” Minho pondered, handsome as ever in a denim shirt and jeans. With the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows, the strong arms Minho flaunted were revealed, and more often than once had Jinki noticed several throngs of young women, clad in short skirts and boasting shorter expectations, eyeing the toned physique of his best friend. All eyes were seemingly trained on Minho, as, for many, Taemin’s beauty was almost too delicate, too fragile, like a moth caught in an hour-glass. As for Jinki himself, his manner was too meek and appearance too vapid to draw any wealth of attention – but he supposed he really did prefer it that way.

“Which one?” Jinki responded, having to speak loudly to be heard over the empathic climes of the music. It thumped on a constant, quieter by the bar and the booth they now occupied, but still an imposition amidst what should have been a calm conversation.

“The young woman,” Minho replied, “the attractive one.”

“An attractive young woman?” Taemin interrupted, raising an eyebrow quizzically. A smirk played on his soft lips as he asked, “Is there something I should know?”

“Aish, knock it off,” Jinki laughed, “there's nothing going on.”

“Hmm, sure,” Taemin shrugged, sipping his glass of water and resting his head back on the booth.

“Hey, it's true!” Jinki attempted, as Taemin began to laugh.

“Really?” Taemin arched an eyebrow suspiciously.

“Really!”

“He's lying,” Minho mumbled, allowing his eyes to drift to the ceiling, as if he never commented at all. Minho whistling distractedly, Taemin leant forward, playful, and poked Jinki’s arm from across the table.

“Hyung, don't lie to me! I'm not a kid anymore, I won't fall for it.”

“You still act like one,” Jinki retorted, immediately defensive as he shot Minho a secretive glare. “Nothing happened.”

“Okay, then I'll ask Minho,” Taemin muttered, and before Jinki could intervene, Minho was ready to explain with the graceless wit only a brother could carry.

“She asked Jinki to paint her .”

Jinki dropped his head, Minho became enraptured in smugness, and Taemin, wide-eyed and disbelieving, exclaimed, “She ​what?!"

“It wasn’t like that,” Jinki tried, the scent of cologne and perfume that was so intrinsic to the night-club causing his nose to twitch.

“It sort of seems like a situation you can't really misinterpret…” Taemin mused, drumming his fingers along the glass. “Did you paint her?”

“He did,” Minho answered, “but fully clothed.”

“To be fair, it would probably be a bit impractical with a toddler in the house anyway.”

“But Jinki uses pictures mostly, am I right, hyung?” Minho blinked at Jinki as he waited for an answer.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I can see why she didn’t give a picture of herself to him,” Taemin offered, “it'd be weird. I mean, he is a stranger, after all.”

“A stranger she was willing to let see her , though,” Minho advocated, always the devil as Taemin pursed his lips. “Anyway, I’m going to get another drink. Anyone want anything?”

Jinki shook his head and Taemin indicated his full glass of water with a shrift nod, as Minho slipped out of the booth.

“I'm going to head to the bathroom,” Taemin excused, “I'll be back in a second. If Kibum comes back with those college friends of his, tell him not to dare touch my drink.” And with that, he too departed the booth. Kibum immersed on the dance floor and with both of his friends gone, Jinki blinked at the curved seat he sat on, the empty spaces, and glanced awkwardly at his hands.

He was alone.

Trying not to become overwhelmed by his awkward trepidation, Jinki sipped his drink calmly, and allowed his eyes to wonder over the hiving club. From where he sat, he was surrounded by similar booths full of drunken friends, embracing the hectic imbues of the ambience with as little persuasion as possible. Men and women kissed between souring drinks of passion, and the neon bar hummed with the single and lonely. Down below was the dancefloor, accessed by a staircase near-hidden beneath the complexity of the laser-lights. Jinki could have stared down if he'd even feinted interest, but the dance-floor seemed blander than the drink in his hands. He already knew just what to expect there – dancing, lust and chaos.

“If you stare at that drink for much longer, you might make it feel self-conscious.”

Jinki jumped, startled, just in time to catch the comment from the familiar voice, just in time to allow his thoughts to protest over in a stunned whimper, as a man slid into the booth opposite him. His manner was timid, his posture shy, but as Jinki blinked, he recognised him instantly, and almost felt as if he should leave right-away.

“The third time in three days,” the man commented gingerly, “I guess that’s what most people would call a coincidence.”

“I guess you're probably right,” Jinki managed, smiling amicably at the stranger with cherry-blossom hair.

“I suppose if this is going to keep happening,” the man murmured, “I'm Jonghyun.” Modest in his actions, Jonghyun merely dipped his head. Though he didn't seem too beseeched by spirits, Jinki wondered if his speech had been only borne of alcohol. Jonghyun’s timidity was so foreign, so vulnerable, and so striking.

“Jinki,” the painter extended, alongside a polite nod. Clenching his clammy palms, he swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling very out-of-place, and as if a man with something to shadow. Somehow, seeing the stranger felt like more than a simple coincidence, but Jinki knew aught on fate or what the fate itself would mean, and could barely understand how to conduct himself never-mind analyse the actions of the man.

“Jinki,” Jonghyun mused, allowing the name to settle on his tongue. He was dressed casually, draped in a large black sweater and similarly black jeans. He could have become one with the dark had the lights not been so rampant. “Are you here with anyone?”

“Just- just some friends,” Jinki answered, “one at the bar, one at the bathroom, and the other God-knows-where.”

“Ah,” Jonghyun smiled politely, “that’s normally the case. I'm here for a friend’s birthday, but three seconds on that dance-floor and I thought I was going to suffocate.” Jonghyun grinned mildly. “I don’t think partying is for me, really.”

“I don’t think it's for me, either,” Jinki empathised. Somehow, Jonghyun’s eyes looked wider than they had during their past encounters, rounder and more intense, clairvoyants of mystery. Jinki tried his best not to watch them too intently. He barely even knew why he was drawn to them, why he found them so intriguing, for eyes could only truly say so much.

“Then why are you here?”

“A friend’s birthday – the lost friend, actually.”

“Oh, same,” Jonghyun laughed, “and I don’t know where he is, either. He's a good guy, but when he's out he goes a bit…”

“Wild?”

“That’s one word for it.”

Glancing across the dancefloor, Jonghyun his lower lip, leaning forward slightly on his seat and considering what next to say. There was something so interesting about his appearance alone that Jinki felt captivated. He didn’t know why nor couldn’t understand how with each slight movement his eyes were drawn – drawn to the way Jonghyun twisted his neck, the way he drummed his fingers atop the table, the way his shoulders tensed to relax, a man nervous in his actions just as Jinki in his words.

“Where's your son tonight?” Jonghyun queried. “Yoogeun, was it?”

“He's staying with my friend’s mother,” Jinki answered, surprised at Jonghyun’s memory. “She's like a grandmother to him, so he likes it there.”

“He seems like a vibrant kid,” Jonghyun remarked, averting his gaze back to Jinki. “He made me laugh, now every time I see my hair all I think of is Spiderman, and that's a really strange connection.”

“Yeah, I gue-“

“Wait, you two know each other?”

Jonghyun and Jinki both whipped their heads around at the incredulous voice, as Kibum wavered by their booth, words slurred and drunken. He gripped Taemin’s wrist loosely, and the dancer stood helpless in terror, a victim of Kibum’s wild endeavours. Garnering his attention, Jinki raised an eyebrow, and Taemin haplessly shrugged, bemused and bewildered by Kibum’s excitement.

“No, well, yeah, but-“ Jonghyun blinked from Kibum to Jinki as he formulated an answer, allowing the puzzle pieces to click together. Kibum was both his own college friend and Jinki’s birthday excuse. Lips twitching, he looked at Jinki and expressed, “Hey, what are the chances?”

Jinki’s grasp around his glass tightened.

“Kibum, aren’t you tired yet?” As Minho appeared, question dominant, he too was swept into the invariable confusion as four pairs of eyes switched to his figure, locked in their own version of events as the nightlife surrounding them continued to pulse. Apt as he was, Minho glanced at each man in turn, studying them for signs regarding what he'd missed. They finished on Jonghyun, and with a cheery grin, he decided, “You must be Kibum’s college friend, no? Choi Minho, it's good to meet you.”

Minho extended a hand for Jonghyun to shake, and as he did, he murmured, “Kim Jonghyun,” nodding his head in brief introduction.

Still standing, Minho noticed how Taemin’s wrist limply hung between the clutched fingers of Kibum. The terror in the younger’s face was near apoplectic as he grimaced, and Minho rolled his eyes, before taking Kibum by the arm and tugging his grip from Taemin. Relieved, Taemin sank into the seat beside Jinki, and so exaggerated was Kibum’s intoxication, he only seemed to notice that Minho now held onto his sleeve, and not that his previous ensnarement had escaped.

Dropping Kibum’s sleeve, Minho asked, “I'm just back from the bar, Jonghyun, but can I get you anything?”

“Oh, no thanks,” Jonghyun declined politely, eyes somehow finding their way back to Jinki for the shortest of interludes. “Actually, I was just about to go, I'm not much of a clubbing person, really, so-“

“Aish, bull!” Kibum exclaimed, slipping into seat beside Jonghyun. “Stay, I'm sure these guys woul’ ​love to get to know you as much as I do.”

Taemin raised an eyebrow at Kibum’s drunken warble, but said nothing as Jonghyun bit his lower lip.

“I guess one drink couldn’t hurt,” he shrugged. Yet again, his eyes fell to Jinki.

•••

“We're already home, Kibum, and the last thing I’m giving you is another shot.”

As Jinki elapsed upon the soft sofa in Minho and Kibum’s shared apartment, eyes weary with the over-wrought flaccidity of his thoughts, the basketballer coaxed a rather drunken Kibum to his bedroom, arm wrapped around his friend’s frail shoulder. From the doorway, Taemin watched, wide-eyed and victim of an obvious smirk, the corner of his lips playfully twitching as he surveyed the three men before him, each bequeathed to various levels of intoxication.

“My friends…” Kibum warbled, stumbling over his own feet as Minho struggled to direct him, “where are-“ His words became muffled as his head lulled against Minho’s shoulder, and the basketballer scowled, brushing him off lightly and forcing him upright. The last thing any of them wanted was a passed-out Kibum before they'd managed to dump his alcohol-infused body atop his bed; though slender and elegantly built, Kibum was muscular and wiry, meaning he was heavier than one would suspect. Tired as they were, neither Jinki, Minho nor Taemin were prepared for such a task.

As the two entangled men passed by the kitchen counters, Kibum suddenly outstretched a hand in pointless spontaneity. Something shattered and, not comfortable anyhow, Jinki raised his body from a foetal position immediately, until he sat staring blankly at the glass that had shattered against the wooden floor in a spectrum-cornucopia.

“Dammit,” Minho hissed, mere footsteps from Kibum’s bedroom.

“I've got it,” Taemin insisted kindly, the only one of the three sober enough to even register that the shards would need swept away before some innocent got one lodged in their foot. Busying himself by hunting for a dustpan and brush, Taemin released a heavy sigh; though he wasn't drunken, he too was exhausted.

Finally, Minho disappeared into Kibum’s bedroom, a look of sullen acceptance gracing his features. Juxtaposing the brightly lit living area and kitchenette, Kibum’s room was immersed in the most phantasmal of shadows, and Minho was instantly lost.

“You want a glass of water?” Taemin called over, turning to face Jinki with a raised eyebrow, hands hovering over the glasses stacked in the kitchen cupboard. He still look so elven, so ethereal, despite the dreary pallor that was beginning to flush his cheeks, and the slightest drawl in his voice, indicating his exhaustion.

“Please,” Jinki requested, unable to argue. Slumping back on the sofa, he shut his eyes and tried to slow his breathing to that of a sleeper. A mild headache pulsed between his temples like an undulating current, lapping up every thought, every action, every word.

As Taemin ran the tap, a set of heavy footsteps confirmed Minho’s reappearance. Jinki opened his eyes, squinting at the harsh yellow light above, as Minho clicked the door shut to Kibum’s room, quiet and tense.

“He's out,” murmured the basketballer, voice uncharacteristically thick, foreign.

“Here,” came a softer, hoarser voice, and Jinki craned his neck to stare at Taemin, who stood stoic in front of him, arm extended to pass a glass of clear, cold water. He'd moved so silently the painter hadn't even heard his approach, and with his elegance as untampered as the most wistful of ephemera, he seemed spectral in the bright, terse apartment. “Take it.”

Jinki nodded thankfully and took the cup as gently as he could from Taemin’s hand. The dancer smiled, as if partial to a secret Jinki had yet to know, before pacing back to Minho, who stood with eyes as vapid as an adit by the counter. Hesitating for the briefest of seconds, Jinki placed the cold glass against his lips, shuddered, and downed the entirety of the liquid in one go.

“Don't worry about it, Taemin,” Minho mumbled, “I can clean the glass. It's late, you should… You should head home. You can walk from here, can't you?”

“Yeah,” Taemin answered quietly, accompanied closely by Minho as he approached the front door. “Besides, I-I kind of doubt anyone is in a fit state to give me a lift, anyway. I'll be fine, hyung.”

Minho chuckled good-naturedly, reaching out and opening the door for the dancer, as his eyes glossed over the basketballer with something akin to affection. Taemin cared, for everyone, and in no ways was Minho the least on that list. Jinki supposed the basketballer’s slight drunkenness was probably more endearing than worrying to the sober dancer.

“Thanks for the lift back,” Minho extended, as Taemin departed into the hallway. “You weren’t quite as bad a driver as I remember, and you didn't even crash my car.”

“Aish,” Taemin grinned, “I'll take that as a compliment. Goodnight, hyung.”

“Night, Taemin.”

With that, Minho shut the door, and a dolorous silence settled. He blinked around with two sedate eyes, seeming to glance at everything in the room before his sights fell on Jinki. The painter appeared faintly morose; he'd left the cup on the coffee table, and his eyes were inserts to two blackened bags. His arms hung limply by his side as if broken, and his lips were taut. Slyly, Minho laughed.

“What?” Jinki pondered, raising an eyebrow as he eyed his friend.

“Never knew you to be such a grumpy drunk, is all,” Minho replied. “You want to crash on the couch tonight?”

“But Yooge-“

“Jinki, you really think my mum actually expected us to be ​back by 1:30?"

Jinki paused, neck sagging, and shook his head.

“Let me get you a blanket,” Minho chortled, vanishing into his room.

As he waited, Jinki massaged his temples, a dull pound eloping across the back of his skull like a runaway bride. Toeing off his shoes, he gloomily squinted to rid the sleep that would no-doubt be there first thing in the morning, alongside a frail hangover and empty stomach. Sniffing, Jinki could only throw a weary curse as something heavy and large fell against his shoulder – a duvet.

“I'll turn off the light,” Minho offered from behind, his voice an echo. “Get some sleep, hyung.”

Jinki nodded, and then there was darkness, the faintest of door-clicks, and Minho was gone.

Lonesome now in the passage of night, Jinki shrugged off his jacket. He was a solivagant; the room was lit by a mere tendril of moonlight that flitted through the slit curtains, lithe in its discourse as it bled over the coffee table, the rug, and his discarded pair of shoes. Though his clothes were uncomfortable, he barely felt it, as he nestled further into the sofa, pulling the duvet blindly towards his chest. He held it there, still, not knowing whether to lie or stay open-eyed and alert. Though tiredness invaded his body, so did a plethora of other maddened thoughts, flexing and widening like the most introspective of lenses.

​Jonghyun.

Jinki frowned, shaking his head in mild disorientation. The image of the figure was but a flash in his memory, but a poignant, unwarranted flash nonetheless. The stranger had been so unsure that night, so timid, rarely speaking and merely watching, coexisting with the four men before him. He was close with Kibum, but the rest were mere acquaintances, and someone of Jonghyun’s vulnerability had not been prepared for the trials of the encounter. He'd laughed at jokes, he'd sipped upon a spirit, but had never once been the one to ask questions. He'd merely tampered with his thoughts like a pianist and their keys.

Jinki narrowed his brows. Had he really been analysing the stranger so deeply?

Rubbing his forehead, Jinki leant back on the sofa. He had to sleep – tomorrow would be a long day, and he would need his energy to amble through it.

But he couldn’t.

Biting back an expletive, Jinki tried to cower from the umbra of his thoughts. They were incandescent with the upheaval of emotions, and he couldn’t tell why, nor the origin of their forms. Loneliness whet the appetitive in his veins for company. His skin was soft, untouched, felt al beneath his shirt, and his hair untamed, tousled, no hands to comb it, no body to tame the brunette waves. Jinki clenched his fists, memories beginning to expound across his mind, no matter how hard he tried to bury them. He felt ​her hands against his skin, felt ​her fingers through his hair, and, all of a sudden, Jinki felt his throat constrict, and a shudder lance through his spine. His lips parted, a weakened moan cracked from between them, and sullenly, he began to cry.

It took him several seconds to feel the tears. They were damp and inconspicuous, carving down his cheeks as whispers carved through air. He felt ​her presence in the cradle of his thoughts like a phantom of the night – and then, beside, something formless, something quiet, something timid with cherry-blossom hair, and then Jinki cursed himself, his mind, his body. A stranger bent the recesses of his thoughts with hands of translucent strength. It was a stranger that tonight would haunt him, and Jinki couldn’t understand ​why.

Wiping away a tear, he tried to settle his thoughts, tried to think elsewhere. He thought of Yoogeun, of his toddler, playing merrily with his newfound toys – and then, of him drawing – and then, of –

The picture. The picture containing Jonghyun.

Jinki shook his head. Why a man aded his thoughts was of foreign sense to him – and such a withheld man, at that. Withheld, but amiable. Withheld, but kind. Withheld, but handsome.

The painter shifted nervously.

​Handsome.

He supposed it was true. Jonghyun’s tanned skin was soft and delicate, his eyes two widened moons, and everything about his manner held dignity and gentleness. But Jinki rarely thought of a man as handsome. He furrowed his brows further, citing blame on the alcohol. He knew deep down that he hadn’t had enough to drink. The painter buried his head in his hands, feeling the wetness of the tears smear his calloused palms. Jonghyun was a stranger. Jonghyun was an acquaintance. Jonghyun ​was a man. Breathing heavily, Jinki lifted his head. The room was still.

Jonghyun was a man, and Jinki had to forget about him, before he could think without regret, had to cast aside his visage before the depths of his mind tampered with unknown feelings. A lonely man and an unforgettable stranger – it seemed basic, such a story, and the outcome determined. However, Jonghyun was a man, and Jinki was a man, and never would a stranger replace the thought of ​her.

Clutching the duvet to his chest, Jinki cried himself to sleep.