2/2
Circuit DreamsJongin transfers the food from its to-go box to a microwaveable plate, popping the entire thing to heat it up. Kyungsoo has texted him a few minutes ago that he’s close by. The other man has promised to spend as much time with Jongin before the younger man has to fly back to Europe tomorrow night.
There’s an almost disciplined quality to the way they chase after each other—trying to catch two days, four days, even a couple of hours in person—but it’s lost between the spontaneity of the pursuit and the anonymity of waiting in airports. Kyungsoo has flown to Monaco and to Singapore to sleep inside the cradle of Jongin’s arms and Jongin has been in South Korea more times this year than all other years after he’s become a professional athlete, combined.
Kyungsoo has that quality, he figures.
He makes Jongin want to be good, be better. Jongin has placed orders for close to a thousand flowers since February. It’s only mid-September and the amount he has racked up over the bouquets and the Cartier jewelry is near-staggering. He wonders how his financial manager will react to the impromptu Mercedes purchase. The poor woman will have a fit.
It’s not like him, he remembers his teammate noting. They’re in Austria, on the winding circuits of the Red Bull Ring in Spielberg before practice, and he spies the photo on Jongin’s home screen with an experienced stare of someone who has had his fair share of relationships. Jongin’s older teammate has been a well-known partier, women after women hanging off of his arm and making a home out of the leather buckets of his supercars.
“He’s pretty cute,” Jongin’s teammate has commented. “Who’s he?”
“Kyungsoo,” Jongin has pronounced carefully, properly, nothing less. There are no secrets in his team even if Jongin’s biggest rival next to himself is his teammate. He adds before locking his phone and stuffing it in his duffel bag, “He’s a singer.”
The man has pulled his phone from his own pocket then and he has typed something that Google autocorrects afterwards. The older man skims through the words on a Wikipedia article before he gives Jongin a look.
“A pop star?” He has sounded incredulous, skeptical bordering on mirthful hysterics. “Really, Kai? Of all people to —you chose a pop star? You?” Jongin has scowled but his teammate has rallied on. “A pro-athlete and a pop sensation—tell me something I haven’t heard before!”
Jongin has sent the older man a glower. “We’re dating,” he growls. “It’s not some damn fling.”
The older man has flinched on Jongin’s tone at that. Kai is not known for his temper off of the tracks. He has raised his hands in a placating gesture, smiling in an apology. Jongin has thought then that there’s something to the older man’s smile that he can’t quite make sense of.
Maybe it makes sense now—with Jongin, champion Formula One driver, reheating pasta at ten in the evening for Kyungsoo. In South Korea. Even if he has to leave the next evening for Europe.
The microwave pings and Jongin burns himself when he takes the plate out. The porcelain hits the marble with a loud noise and he’s glad nothing breaks or chips. Turning the faucet on, he runs the red of his fingers under the cool water and—
The doorbell rings.
Jongin runs off to open the front door.
“Hi.” Kyungsoo steps inside, closing the door. Before Jongin can kiss him, the older man does it himself. His plump lips taste like grape-flavored Gatorade against Jongin’s. Deftly twisting the lock, Kyungsoo breaks their lip-lock with a smile.
There’s something inherently beautiful about this Kyungsoo. He looks tired and worn but there’s a bright twinkle in his eyes that speaks of excitement and passion. The younger admires that about him—Kyungsoo gives it his all as an idol. He spends most of his days exhausting himself for music. Kyungsoo is art in motion.
Jongin runs his pink tongue on his bottom lip, chasing the taste of grape.
“I got you dinner,” he says a weighted beat after. He herds Kyungsoo to the kitchen, the older man removing his shoes and neatly arranging it on the entryway. He adds, “I got your favorite Italian place to pack the food to go.”
Kyungsoo scrunches his eyebrows, confused, “I thought they didn’t do take-aways?”
Jongin winks. Both his eyes look close anyway, with the way he’s smiling big and his eyes into arched slits. Kyungsoo laughs deeply, rounding the corner to the kitchen, mumbling a you look ugly. Jongin grins, the restaurant doesn’t do take-outs, not really, but they’re more than willing enough for Kai Kim. He tells that to Kyungsoo and the shorter eyes him with disdain and a twist on his mouth, making a hilarious face.
“Jongin!” The older man suddenly screams, forefinger training somewhere. Jongin startles, turning to where Kyungsoo’s finger is leveled at, dashing.
In his haste, Jongin has left the tap open.
Jongin plays Kyungsoo like a fiddle late at night—early morning. Time is borderline imaginary to the point of non-existence when Kyungsoo spreads himself under the cage of Jongin’s body. The older man’s pale skin brightens up to luminescence with the dim fluorescent light just above the headboard. There’s an applause somewhere dedicated to his interior decorators when the impeccable lighting fixtures make Kyungsoo appear ethereal, otherworldly, like he’s something Jongin cannot comprehend in his entirety. Something he cannot fathom. Something he can only worship.
So Jongin does.
Kyungsoo’s lying on the bed languidly like he’s waiting to be serviced. Jongin starts on the bottom of Kyungsoo’s foot. He holds it on his hand gently, kissing the curvature before his lips trail to the other man’s ankle. Jongin’s kneeling in between Kyungsoo’s legs and he raises one limb to place a series of caresses upwards with the brush of his mouth.
Jongin stops on Kyungsoo’s inner thigh, sinking lower with a purpose. He feels himself grow hard from the intensity of the singer’s gaze and he gives small nibbles on the expanse of flesh he can reach—the juncture of Kyungsoo’s hip, his belly, everywhere that tastes like Kyungsoo. Jongin pours lube on his hand, letting the excess drip on the crack between the older man’s cheeks.
Jongin swallows Kyungsoo’s entire length and the other breaks his breathy murmurs of yes, yes, and to release a loud moan the reverberates on Jongin’s chest cavity with pride. Kyungsoo’s hands move to clutch on Jongin’s hair and the shorter man moves in time with the up and down of Jongin’s head on .
The younger wants to please and to pleasure and his lubed hand creeps on the wetness starting from the skin of Kyungsoo’s balls to his twitching rim. He slips one finger inside and moans around Kyungsoo’s from the scorching heat and the tightness around his index finger. Kyungsoo groans a prayer to God and Jongin slips another digit inside Kyungsoo’s warmth. He begins pumping them in and out and his thumb scrapes the skin on Kyungsoo’s opening.
Jongin has yet to put the third finger in when Kyungsoo spills inside Jongin’s mouth just as the younger hums around the pulsating hardness. The taller man tries to swallow everything but he ends up coughing some. White paints the tan skin around Jongin’s mouth, dribbling on his neck and chest. Kyungsoo sits upright and his own come on Jongin’s sweaty skin.
Jongin lets himself be flipped and Kyungsoo is a familiar weight sitting on top of him. His hands spread the pre- steadily leaking from Jongin’s and his palm is soft from where it’s wrapped around the younger’s wide girth. Kyungsoo moves it up and down, thumbing the slit with enough pressure that Jongin sees stars even before he releases. Kyungsoo tightens his hold on the base and he scrapes blunt fingernails on the skin near the jut of Jongin’s pelvis. Three angry red lines get tattooed in a mark of seduction riddled with excitement.
Kyungsoo flicks his wrist just so and Jongin comes with a shout half-way muffled by Kyungsoo’s kiss. The older man moves lower and sinks his mouth in an open-mouthed kiss where Jongin’s come has created streaks on his skin. Kyungsoo and cleans Jongin like that before he slumps down on top of the younger man.
Jongin lets the singer catch his breath before the shorter man rolls away from him. His back hits the mattress to occupy the space beside the younger. Their legs tangle like mismatched puzzle pieces from the same picture—the gold of Jongin’s skin to the silver of Kyungsoo’s. The older man turns on his side and his finger is quick to poke the two moles on Jongin’s stomach, separated by the distance created by the stretched ridges of bulging muscle. Kyungsoo laughs when he points out that he has the same moles and Jongin bolts upright at the knowledge.
Kyungsoo is saying the truth—there are two moles on his stomach, the same position as his. Jongin’s lips become the cartographer creating a map of constellations using Kyungsoo’s beauty marks littering on his skin, trying to memorize the typography of Kyungsoo’s endlessness.
Before long, the both of them are hard again and Jongin opens Kyungsoo with his tongue and his fingers before he pushes his inside the welcoming heat. It’s languorous but not tedious and he giggles when Kyungsoo tires to kiss him square on the mouth, missing and planting one on his chin instead.
It’s slow and unhurried and different. They both at almost the same time with noises eaten by their mouths on each other. The relaxed rhythm is exhilarating despite the fact that the only time Jongin has ever felt in motion is when something hurtles at 375 kilometers per hour.
He figures this is how it feels to have the world stop.
It’s almost six in the morning when Jongin wakes up to the incessant buzzing on his phone from the bedside table. Kyungsoo’s and hugging him from behind like a small backpack, one short leg and one short arm thrown over his person. The phone vibrates again four times and Jongin’s tempted to throw it to the wall when the beginning of the song for his teammate trills across the quiet of the apartment.
Kyungsoo stirs and makes annoyed grumbling noises so Jongin picks the phone and answers the call.
“Get your back here,” his teammate barks. Jongin is about to reply but the man has hung up before he can even protest. He takes the screen away from his ear and he sees 3 missed calls from his agent and seven text messages. A little dumbfounded, he swipes his fingers on one of the balloon notifications. The messages have gone from polite to increasingly distressed—half threatening and half threatened.
It seems that he has a flight to catch.
Jongin groans and pries Kyungsoo’s limbs off of him. The man starts to come to it, making tiny whining noises. His eyes are barely opened.
“Go back to sleep,” Jongin whispers. His lips brush minutely on the mole he shares with the older man on his ear.
“Where are you going?” Kyungsoo asks. His voice is raspy from sleep but he manages to fully detach himself from Jongin, legs untangling. He pulls the blanket closer, trying to sit up straight but failing.
“I have to fly out now.” Jongin is sorry, very much so. He has promised a lazy day with Kyungsoo, but it’s not like he can help it. There’s a first class ticket already purchased for him. “It’s an emergency.”
Kyungsoo tries to sit up again. “I’ll go with you.”
Jongin kisses the idol’s forehead. It’s a nice suggestion but Kyungsoo looks like he won’t be able to brush his teeth with the heaviness on his limbs.
“It’s okay,” Jongin assures. “Just rest here.”
Kyungsoo is seemingly ready to protest but he gives out another large yawn. His eyelids are falling down with the need to go back to sleep again. He shakes his head before surging to peck Jongin’s lips with a simple kiss. The younger deepens the exchange, body curving downwards while Kyungsoo inclines back.
Kyungsoo breaks it off when he falls asleep, mid-kiss.
Jongin attempts to silence his loud guffaws so the older man doesn’t wake up.
Jongin gives a sleeping Kyungsoo a kiss on the lips before he leaves. The man doesn’t stir and Jongin’s about to head off when he thinks about Kyungsoo getting lonely. He leans down again to place one more kiss, and then one more, and one more, and one more—just because.
He ends up kissing Kyungsoo twelve more times and then, realizing that thirteen is an unlucky number, he kisses the older man again.
And then one more time, telling himself it’s the last. Fifteen seems like a better number than fourteen, Jongin justifies.
Kyungsoo wakes up like he’s being pulled out of murky water, slow and a struggle of effort. The other side of the bed has gone cold and he wonders where Jongin is before remembering early morning sunlight and kisses exchanged in apology and goodbye and hello and for nothing at all. Both of them like kissing, love kissing each other.
He gets out of the bed, dressing himself in a shirt and boxers, before heading to the kitchen. Jongin’s Gangnam apartment is an exercise in modernity with its clean lines. Everything appears like a statue that no one is able to touch. It’s a good reflection of a rich man too lazy, too unknowledgeable, to leave parts of himself inside interiors. It’s as good as a hotel room, impersonality carved within the monochrome.
Kyungsoo doesn’t like how lifeless the apartment is now that Jongin’s gold doesn’t overflow all-over the place.
Dragging himself across the hardwood floors, he goes to the fridge first. At the very least, Jongin’s apartment is now well stocked. Someone must have been maintaining the place in top condition when the athlete is away.
Something catches his attention when he grabs the milk from the shelf.
A key. And a note.
Kyungsoo, sorry for leaving you alone on our supposed day-off. Text me once you’re awake. Your phone’s on the kitchen counter; I’m sure you didn’t even notice that! I even bought a new car yesterday so I can drive you around but—I guess you can just use the Mercedes if you want. Key’s also on the counter beside your phone.
The one in the fridge is the key to my apartment since I don’t want you to knock anymore. I don’t want the tap to flood my kitchen. Come over anytime! Even if I’m not there.
Already missing you,
Jongin
P.S Putting this inside the fridge is a good idea, right? I’m sure this is the first place you’ll go to after waking up.
Kyungsoo breaks into a wide grin, snatching his phone on the marble top. He pulls up Jongin’s contact and dials for a video call. It has barely connected when Jongin answers with a soft smile on his face and an even softer gaze.
“You’re so silly,” Kyungsoo says in lieu of a greeting. Jongin’s eyes disappeared with the length of his smile. He adds, “And I don’t need your car.”
The older knows that the moment Jongin opens his mouth it’s to a load of explanation—how he’s not in South Korea and the car would just go to waste, prompting Kyungsoo to nag about smart financial decisions, and how his Gangnam property can use a little life with the color of Kyungsoo’s lips and the brightness he brings wherever he goes.
Kyungsoo calls bull but he does sink down on the floor—too lazy to sit on a chair, too weak on the knees because of a man 20, 000 feet up in the air.
The carton of milk stays forgotten.
Kyungsoo returns to Jongin’s apartment later that day carrying a bunch of roses. The florist has eyed the way he has the hood of his jacket up over Jongin’s Mercedes cap and the medical mask covering half of his face. She has not said anything after Kyungsoo has purchased three dozens of flowers.
He shakes his head in resignation when he finds that Jongin only has one vase. Three dozens won’t be able to fit on the container’s mouth. Kyungsoo takes out the drinking glasses inside Jongin’s cupboard, t most of the stem from each of the flowers. He puts a little water on each glass and adds three or four of the pink roses, scattering them throughout the apartment. It looks straight out of Pinterest. That, or a college dorm room.
The soft petals are a beautiful contrast to the hard edges and the overall sleek characteristic of masculine ostentatiousness. Kyungsoo likes the pink with the white and gray, stark like the gold of Jongin’s skin against the boring furniture. He sends a video to Jongin alongside a you should consider color around your apartment.
And, just because he can, he plucks one rose from one of the drinking glasses, tucking it neatly on his ear. He sends a quick selca to Jongin, smiling a bit, and he has to admit the photo comes out good when the sunlight filters and hits the skin of his face and collarbones.
Jongin ends up video calling him two hours later, breathing out, “How can I say no to you when you send me a picture like that? I’ll throw paint on everything in my apartment if it will make you happy.”
Kyungsoo makes sure colors bloom inside Jongin’s apartment—blues, yellows, reds, violets. He thinks Jongin may have been lonely in his suite in Kuala Lumpur for the Malaysian Grand Prix so he has someone arrange dozens of pink roses for the younger man—since you miss it, he writes on the card.
Jongin replies with a selca, one flower placed on his ear with a we match.
“Hi,” Kyungsoo says when the video connects. Jongin replies with a casual hey back and then an I miss you so much. Kyungsoo laughs at that, telling the younger man to be patient, the season’s almost over. Jongin pouts but nods anyway. Kyungsoo smiles and says, I miss you too, so much.
Jongin’s shirtless and lounging inside his hotel room. From behind him, Kyungsoo can make out the slight blur of Dyolamb. It’s cute—how Jongin insists on bringing the doll on his races as a placeholder for Kyungsoo.
“I have another surprise,” Jongin blurts out in the middle of Kyungsoo talking about the recipe he has recently learned. “In Japan.”
“Why do you like giving surprises so much?” Kyungsoo asks.
“It’s—well,” Jongin rubs his hand on the back of his head, smiling sheepishly. His voice is soft and fond. “I like how your eyes would widen and then you’ll wring your hands together. Like you don’t know what to do with them. Then you’d kiss me. Or I’d kiss you. And you’d smile after. All big and happy. And—you’re so bright, Kyungsoo.”
Kyungsoo doesn’t even know he wrings his hands. Jongin pronounces, and you’d smile after all big and happy and you’re so bright kyungsoo, weird accent and all, like it’s enough of a reason to fly half-way across the world, jet lag worth it.
“I really want to be where you are right now,” Kyungsoo admits, mind blank and not thinking. “So I can kiss you—hold you.”
Jongin reduces him to this. Jongin is something unbelievable.
Later, Jongin sends him a photo of Dyolamb on the driver’s seat of the W07. Kyungsoo loses it when he spots the doll wearing a replica of Jongin’s racing suit—complete with the sponsors’ logos. Clutching his stomach and cursing Jongin, his eyes tear up even more when the younger man adds, Need to watch out for new competition; heard he’s good!
There’s a certain mundane quality to their everyday. It’s a routine to talk, about important things, about petty things, about nothing at all. Sometimes, they will call each other and listen to their breathing—distorted by static and time and miles of separation.
He sees the slight worry in the crease of Junmyeon’s eyebrows and he’s been repeatedly asked how he’s able to maintain a long distance relationship, something, whatever. Kyungsoo smiles like he has a secret.
It’s not hard.
It’s easy. It’s so very easy.
Jongin’s smile makes it all feel effortless, weightless, light.
There’s a certain magic to the reality of their relationship—Jongin transforms the ordinary into something worth keeping. Kyungsoo hoards notes with Jongin’s ugly handwriting on torn scraps of paper like they’re treasures.
EXO lands in Hokkaido just before midnight. The airport in Chitose is still awake with the yawns of passengers trying to make it somewhere, sometime. Their fansites have their cameras poised to take photographs, like paparazzi-vultures.
Kyungsoo tries to keep himself from looking too sleepy. Droopy eyes and eye bags don’t make much for quality pictures. Maybe the fans will use photoshop—blur and airbrush his face so he doesn’t look the same. Kyungsoo is used to this part of being a celebrity. Of not really being himself.
“You okay?” Baekhyun creeps beside him once they are out of arrivals.
“Yeah,” Kyungsoo answers curtly, taking his phone out. Jongin’s messages from after the Grand Prix in Suzuka have been vague. He lost the race to an upstart with an arrogant smirk and Kyungsoo’s expecting a tirade for at least three more days interspersed with selcas from parts of the world. Instead, Jongin’s been asking him questions about Japan. “Jongin’s being weird.”
“Oh?” The inflection coloring Baekhyun’s one-syllable reply speaks louder than a longer statement can ever do.
“Do you know something?” Kyungsoo asks suspiciously. He knows that s have been sending candids to Jongin almost everyday and he wonders, a little in annoyance, if they have sent something they shouldn’t. It will not be the first time, nor will it be the last, considering they have sent Jongin pictures of Kyungsoo wearing a blonde wig from their failed production way back in 2014, for The Lost Planet, just two days ago.
Jongin has laughed himself silly, responding with a series of photos from one of his escapades in Las Vegas. Kyungsoo assures that Jongin has rocked the hot pink feather boa despite being topless and wearing leather pants.
The smirk on Baekhyun’s face is impish and Kyungsoo’s hackles rose in instinct and alarm—survival of the fittest and all that.
“Maybe,” Baekhyun giggles, tugging Kyungsoo for a side hug out of nowhere. Lips near the younger’s ear, he whispers, “Lover boy’s got a surprise.”
And Baekhyun’s right. Jongin has a surprise. One of their managers ushers him not inside the usual sedan but towards a black Toyota coupe. Kyungsoo is about to ask some questions when the window on the passenger side rolls down.
“Hi, gorgeous,” Jongin grins. “How about a date?”
Kyungsoo involuntarily smiles and his cheeks are flushed red from the compliment. He’s wearing a pair of loose pants cuffed high to show his cream-colored socks and leather shoes. The chill in Hokkaido is warded off by his sweater and thick jacket. The medical mask is pulled low on his chin. He’s far from gorgeous but Jongin’s smile is so bright, so beautiful, and Kyungsoo believes him just a little. How can he not—when the taller man looks at him like Kyungsoo’s something incredible in his comfortable clothes and bare face.
Kyungsoo falls in love, just like that, just like before, just like always. Jongin makes it so easy.
“Get inside, silly.” Jongin honest-to-god giggles and he crooks his fingers in a playful come hither gesture. The older feels possessed, like he’s in a dream, and he plops on the leather seat, closing the car door fast.
Jongin clicks something and the opened window rolls closed. A pleasant silence envelops the small car. Kyungsoo shifts in his seat, turning towards the younger man and leaning in. The kiss is short and sweet, chaste. It tastes like friendship and trust with the longing of a starved man.
“Hey, Jongin,” Kyungsoo greets warmly. Sapporo is cold this time of the year.
Jongin brings Kyungsoo to McDonald’s.
“Wow,” Kyungsoo teases. “You’re not trying to impress me?”
“I thought I didn’t need to impress you,” Jongin smirks back. The corner of his lips are pulled to show his teeth; it’s unsettlingly predatory. He slips his hand on Kyungsoo’s and the older feels himself stiffen. Jongin presses himself closer and the heat of the man comforts Kyungsoo from the anxiety of prying eyes.
Escapism is close to impossible when everyone owns a camera phone.
McDonald’s is close to dead some minutes past midnight. Jongin leads him way at the back, the taller man pulling his mask secured high on his face. It’s not a novelty in Japan—no one looks twice at the person covering most of his face and looking ready to rob a fast food chain.
Anyone has something to hide nowadays. People like Kyungsoo and Jongin just have a lot more to keep, to lose.
“So,” Jongin drawls. The twinkle in his eyes taunts Kyungsoo. The man is probably smirking. “What do you want, boyfriend? My treat, of course.”
Kyungsoo laughs, raising a single eyebrow, he asks in a faux cold tone, “Boyfriend?”
He sees Jongin visibly faltering. Broad shoulders droop down a bit and Kyungsoo can imagine the normally confident man fiddling with his fingers under the table.
“I mean,” the racer whispers. “Aren’t you?”
Kyungsoo watches him and notices the raw vulnerability associated with hope. He can break this strong man with a simple no, he thinks. A simple no and someone like Jongin—who has all the trophies and the praises and the news articles and the Instagram followers and the money—will crumble right in front of his eyes.
But Kyungsoo doesn’t want that. Kyungsoo wants Jongin. Kyungsoo wants—needs.
“You’re so stupid,” he answers fondly. He bumps his knee on the other man’s and Jongin’s eyes widen a bit. “I want a Happy Meal, boyfriend.”
Jongin’s wide eyes crinkle and disappear. Kyungsoo looks around and, seeing no one around them, he leans closer across the plastic table. He presses their cloth-covered mouth together in a short, artificial kiss. There’s a smile playing on both their lips.
Kyungsoo’s cheeks are warm when he settles back on his seat. He shoos Jongin away with his hand, grumbling, “Go get me my food and toy, please.”
Jongin’s body is not tense anymore. There’s an easy manner to the way he stands up. He spreads his arm in a mock conceited gesture.
“I’ll go buy all the toys for you, boyfriend.”
Kyungsoo can hear the snicker on Jongin’s words. He laughs behind his hand when he sees the six-foot tall man skip to the counter.
Jongin saunters back carrying a tray full of food. This time, he sits beside Kyungsoo.
“That’s too much,” Kyungsoo admonishes, eyeing the food and the mountain of toys.
“They have the complete toy set so,” Jongin shrugs.
“So you end up buying seven meals for the two of us?”
“Yeah!”
Kyungsoo doesn’t know whether to cry or laugh. Jongin is serious when he has said he’s going to buy all the toys.
“You can’t even eat too much. You’re in the middle of the season,” he reminds. Kyungsoo lifts both his legs, placing them on Jongin’s lap. The man pulls Kyungsoo and his seat closer, arranging the limbs on top of his thighs. Kyungsoo grins and he pulls his mask down, Jongin following suit.
He grabs a fry and stuffs it inside his mouth. He bites off the crispy part and stuffs the soggy end inside Jongin’s mouth.
“I thought I shouldn’t eat since I’m on a diet.” Jongin’s hand is running up and down Kyungsoo’s legs. It’s nothing sensual or ual, just something familiar but intimate. Occasionally, the athlete will pat Kyungsoo’s knee.
“I said you shouldn’t eat much,” he emphasizes. “And I hate soggy fries.”
“But I hate soggy fries!”
“Too bad,” Kyungsoo retorts playfully. “I get the last say since I’m older.”
Jongin’s laughter vibrates against Kyungsoo. His chest tightens with something, everything. Kyungsoo contents himself with lacing his other hand on Jongin’s. They can both eat with just one free. Kyungsoo dangles a fry in front of Jongin’s mouth and the younger obediently eats the piece.
Kyungsoo ends up giving the crispy ones to Jongin, having all the soggy ones to himself. He doesn’t mind—the younger gives him a kiss every time.
The stage looms in a trap of false illusion. Lights flare out like a hazard and the noise is deafening. The in-ears do not filter the screams of delight and amazement. Breathing is only second to performing and entertaining, Kyungsoo thinks.
He stands in front of almost ten thousand people with the same trepidation that, he thinks, will never go away. The stage is not a home as it is a house where Kyungsoo is not himself but EXO’s D.O. Inside Makomanai Ice Arena, in Hokkaido, in front of fans, none of them are who they really are. Bits and pieces of backstage identity watered down by lectures and training will sometimes slip past but here, as EXO, they do not really own themselves. There’s an alienation associated to being an idol. Kyungsoo is not D.O but, at the same time, stage names blur the divide between reality and the fake glamor of celebrity life. Kyungsoo is D.O but he is not, not really, not that much, not anymore.
He’s going around the stage on the opposite side of where he’s assigned to mostly be. The fans wave their banners and their uchiwa. The are glitter and glamor concealing bruises on gaunt skin and vomit stains on clear tiles. Kyungsoo smiles and sways to beat thumping on his veins. The thuds are no more than a routine.
Kyungsoo’s about to turn when he spots something—or rather, someone. He freezes in to place for at most two seconds before years of being a trainee kicks in. He plasters a fake, standard smile but his eyes try to zero in on the man brandishing an official EXO lightstick. On his other hand, he’s clutching his Dyolamb. They’re wearing matching concert baseball jerseys.
Jongin is ridiculous. This is the man whom Kyungsoo loves.
The younger has a bright smile and his mouth moves in time with the fan chants. The last note trills out of Jongdae’s mouth and Kyungsoo makes eye contact to the only person watching in the entire arena who matters. He keeps his gaze steady as the lyrics smoothly flow from deep into his throat to his lips. He hits the note flawlessly and he closes his eyes, turning his head a little to the side as he drags the last syllable a little bit before letting go.
Opening his eyes, he finds Jongin staring at him intently. There’s an unknown expression on the other man’s face and Kyungsoo wants—needs—to cross the boundary of the performer and the audience to kiss that man silly because that. That’s the man whom Kyungsoo loves.
The thrumming in Kyungsoo’s veins change in tempo and beat. It’s foreign but, at the same time, not. His heart skips and threatens to explode out of his chest like its ten sizes too big for his frame. Kyungsoo is D.O but he’s also Kyungsoo again. The smile on his face feels like sunlight on his skin. The lights do not hurt his head anymore and the glitter and glamor is a tad more genuine this time from the sparkle on Jongin’s eyes and the the beam on his face.
And all because of one man in the audience who looks at him that.
Kyungsoo returns it with the same look—hopefully, Jongin knows he’s the reason why Kyungsoo keeps coming back on the section not assigned to him.
Kyungsoo browses through his camera roll, looking at pictures from their short time in Sapporo. The night has made them seem like they’re taken with an old Nokia from 2009. There are photos of a tanned hand intertwined with a paler one, of Jongin making faces in front of a statue, of tangled feet, of plastic cups on the holder of the rented Toyota—over two hundred of them playing tourists at one in the morning.
Jongin has complained about the photo quality being ugly, whining about the lack of tourist attractions opened at an inglorious hour. He remembers the other apologizing for not thinking their impromptu date through. Kyungsoo has patted his boyfriend’s back with a smile then, and a They’re all worth more than tourist attractions since I’m with you. The younger has gaped at that and Kyungsoo has kissed the expression off of Jongin’s face.
Smiling at the memory, he swipes some more through the captured moments and Kyungsoo realizes that he’s smiling at Jongin in almost all of them.
The last four races of the season will be hot. Jongin thinks, literally, looking at Texas and Mexico City and São Paulo and Abu Dhabi. Jongin can win the race in 19 if he sweeps United States and Mexico and the #2 drops out of the podium.
It’s a little wishful for him to hope. He loses Texas and Mexico City magnificently. All publicity is good publicity—including Jongin’s near collision with a driver from Ferrari that has him seeing stars under the brightness of the warm Mexico sun.
Kyungsoo has left him numerous voice mails, text messages, and missed calls. Jongin feels bad for making the other worry but the medical team has him ushered in for a thorough check-up before he can even have the time to think. Jongin’s always moving at a fast speed, in and out of the race tracks.
Once everything is said and done, he welcomes the fabricated privacy of a chartered plane paid with a long string of zeroes on a mint check. Solitude is expensive in the days of social media and everyday-paparazzi. Jongin leans back comfortably on the chair, drinking his tea as he waits for the call to connect. The plane’s up in the air and Jongin almost always loses time despite being in various time zones every two weeks.
Thankfully, Kyungsoo’s face appears on his screen—there’s a smudge of make-up on his lids and his cheeks are dusted with something peach. Jongin has known a lot about make-up after Kyungsoo. The most important is that his boyfriend looks ravishing post- when the colors have slightly run on his sated face after multiple rounds.
“Hi, boyfriend,” he purrs. Kyungsoo’s thick eyebrows furrow and Jongin watches the older man’s expression go from happy to confused to mad to irritated to, unusually enough, admonishing. Kyungsoo is always a joy to watch—he wears his feelings like a favorite jacket.
“Don’t boyfriend me,” the man grunts. His voice is deep and a little scratchy.
“Please don’t cry,” Jongin half-begs. “I don’t like it when you cry and I’m not there.” His right hand meets the impersonal surface of his phone screen. The tip of his index finger gently caresses Kyungsoo’s close-up. Jongin wants to comfort the singer so bad, he knows what this is about.
“You almost crashed,” Kyungsoo accuses. “You almost crashed in Mexico on your second lap, Jongin.”
“I’m sorry,” Jongin says. He doesn’t know what to say. He thinks he should. Maybe.
There is no manual for something like this. It’s a first time for him—to receive a worried call from someone other than his family and dearest friends. It’s strange and new. He likes it, likes everything Kyungsoo.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, sighing. “It’s part of the game. Formula One is not the safest sport, isn’t it?”
“No ,” Kyungsoo sniffles before he, too, sighs. His shoulders drop in minute defeat. Jongin supposes Kyungsoo understands. It’s the hazard of his profession, same way as a celebrity is always going to be scrutinized, as an idol is going to barely sleep and rest. There’s nothing they can do about it. They live individual lives outside of each other, tangled messes of inhumane schedule and screeching tires over the bass of dance music and photoshoots.
“It’s—” Jongin pauses, trying to search for the proper word. It’s not okay. “—it’s as usual.”
That’s not the most reassuring thing to say and Kyungsoo’s glare is visible despite the distortions of the wifi connection.
“I mean, it’s whatever, you know?”
“It’s not whatever, Jongin,” Kyungsoo scolds. The furrow in his brow is still there. From somewhere behind him, Jongin can hear hooting sounds and loud laughter.
“I know, it’s just,” Jongin stops again, taking a deep breath. “I’ve been doing this my whole life and it really is part of the race. The danger. It’s part of what makes it so amazing. It’s, like, you’re constantly in an adrenaline high.”
There’s a weighted silence. On Kyungsoo’s end, there’s a crash and someone, who sounds suspiciously like Baekhyun, titters in response. The plane remains quiet with the white noise of Jongin’s companions.
“Okay,” Kyungsoo says. He seems to be saying it more to himself than to the athlete. A pale hand goes up and stubby fingers comb through ink strands. The action momentarily distracts Jongin. “It’s not my place to be like this, right? And I’m sorry for blowing up your phone with messages and—”
“No!” Jongin is quick to interrupt. Kyunsoo cannot think like that. “I like your messages. I like that you’re worried—even if it seems bad on my part. And, Kyungsoo, I don’t know what you’re thinking but it’s definitely your place to be worried.”
“Of course,” Kyungsoo mock scoffs. And then his face turns serious. “I know it’s my place to be worried. I’m your boyfriend. I meant about your job. It’s not my place to into your job demanding you do this and that.”
Jongin beams at Kyungsoo’s words, agreeing with what he has said. At this point, Jongin feels the same way. He doesn’t feel comfortable telling Kyungsoo to stop being an idol, or to come out so they can date comfortably. There’s nothing more infuriating than someone policing your actions and Jongin and Kyungsoo have both lived under rigid sets of rules to have come where they are. They don’t need more from each other.
But the worry and the nagging, Jongin will take that wholeheartedly.
There are things a professional athlete cannot keep, someone has told Jongin once. Secrets are currency in gossip rags and contract renewals.
He is not blind to performance-enhancing drugs, not deaf to the talks of the commission and the management about fixed games. Money changes hands and, in the end, the sport is still a business for men in power. He’s the actor on stage trying to beat the flag but no race is ever completely clean anyway.
He knows there’s a distinct difference between athletes based in North America and those in Europe. For one, America has always been concerned with capping salaries on teams and players. Europe is the embodiment of luxury, depravity always half its doors. Jongin has the European pro-athlete lifestyle down to a perfect T.
He has seen his fair share of women and men come in go—sometimes at the same time, sometimes in multiples. At nineteen, on a party in some penthouse maybe in France or Italy, he has been in between a Victoria’s Secret model’s thighs, trying to snort the trail of coke on her bronze skin.
When Jongin has won his first Drivers’ Championship before most people have their college diploma, Mercedes slips him a check upon the news of Ferrari sniffing around his contract. The amount is still sitting in one of Jongin’s bank account, the one that’s undocumented, the one in Switzerland—a chain of numbers in lieu of an identity to keep the bribe disguised as a bonus in a hush-hush.
The trophy adds to his reputation and Jongin has flown to Spain to share a bed with a football star from a top-tier team. A week later, he has gone on a bender with an American model, a Greek socialite, and an heir with a fat trust fund. They have been caught driving 60 miles per hour over the speed limit. The paparazzi have immortalized the misdemeanor on the internet. Mercedes has called him in a closed-door meeting.
Barely a month after, Jongin gets someone to renovate an expensive flat in Monaco, getting criticisms over escaping the high income tax in England. Jongin is advised by his financial manager, handing him a list of locations to choose from. He has always liked the beach so he fills Louis Vuitton suitcases and moves 50 kilograms of his life to the French Riviera. The DJs play ty electronic music that grates on his nerves but the bartenders know how to make a mean drink.
Jongin is no saint.
But here, in a hotel room no different from the one in Milan or Seoul, Jongin forgets the alcohol and the on his resume when Kyungsoo kisses him fast and hard like he’s desperate to break Jongin to pieces.
“We don’t have much time,” Kyungsoo whispers harshly on Jongin’s plush lips. The older man pulls away and directs his kisses and nips from below Jongin’s ear down to the line of his strong jaw. Jongin helplessly cups Kyungsoo’s plump , squeezing and trying to gain purchase.
“,” he swears. English spills like second nature from his mouth, running out of control. “, Kyungsoo. You’re so hot.”
“Thanks,” Kyungsoo teases. He hard on a particular patch of skin, right on Jongin’s jugular. He palms the growing hardness inside younger’s Calvins and he can feel thick lips quirking up in a smirk before Kyungsoo pulls away.
Jongin groans, “Don’t tease. You said it—not much time.”
Kyungsoo grabs Jongin’s hands, eyes alight with impish malice. He drags the taller man near the bed before Jongin feels something bony poking the back of his knee. Weak, he collapses right on the mattress. Turning around so he’s on his back, he sees Kyungsoo crawling up to him like a predator.
“Right where I want you.” There’s a growl on the lilt of the last syllable. Jongin’s pants tighten but he feels laughter bubbling up in his throat before bursting loud. Kyungsoo bounces with the movements of his chuckles from where he’s straddling Jongin easily.
He tries to curb his laughter. Kyungsoo’s smirk has already morphed into a more genuine smile, happiness radiating from the brightness of his face, small giggles coming out of his lips. Jongin places his hands on Kyungsoo’s soft hips, slipping under the material of his tee. His boxer briefs are black and his thighs look even more appealing in them.
“What a view,” Jongin whistles. He jostles Kyungsoo a bit, reaching for the man’s ankles and pulling. The older rests squarely on his pelvis, legs stretched out. Jongin clenches his abs, wiggling and testing the give of the bed, before sitting up suddenly.
Kyungsoo yelps but Jongin quickly holds the shorter male so he won’t fall from where he’s perched on Jongin’s half-hard . He kisses any protest and question away. His hands go from Kyungsoo’s hips to the thighs on the sides of Jongin, gripping the flesh and digging his fingernails. Kyungsoo doesn’t like him leaving marks but the smaller man has given him a free pass after sending a provocative picture with a mark me so I don’t forget what you’ve done.
Jongin asks to meet somewhere in the world, mid-way the both of them, even for a few hours. It’s impulsive and stupid, hopping on a plane in a random airport code and booking a room in the nearest hotel.
Kyungsoo grinds his hips agonizingly slow. Designer underwear feels good when they rub on both their arousals. Blunt fingernails leave crescents on the gold of Jongin’s skin like a brand. Kyungsoo breaks the kiss but he brings their lips together just as fast. His tongue Jongin’s bottom lip and the younger obediently opens his mouth, hands now slipping beneath the band of Kyungsoo’s boxer-briefs. Skin-to-skin contact sends tingling down Jongin’s spine.
The singer’s hands find their way on the wide expanse of Jongin’s toned back. He presses his weight on Jongin’s and the athlete gets the idea, removing his wandering hands from Kyungsoo’s and falling down on the bed when Kyungsoo has removed his hands on his back. Kyungsoo fixes his position so he’s straddling Jongin again. This time, his back is arched and his is up on the air like an invitation.
The kiss progresses into something more open-mouthed, from lips to the skin on Jongin’s neck to his chest. Jongin moans when Kyungsoo’s fingers pinch one of his s just as the man near his collarbones. He bucks his hips off of the bed, hoping to gain more friction on his hard member.
Kyungsoo stops, looking at Jongin warningly, “Patience.”
“We both have to be in the airport in two and a half hours.”
The singer smirks, bending down to bite Jongin’s earlobe playfully. “That’s plenty enough time to make you come.”
Kyungsoo makes do with his promise. Jongin is no saint but his hands and his mouth and his words are the prayers sent to Jongin’s ways. His palms press on skin in worship and Jongin forgets the past and the present and the future when Kyungsoo chants his name.
Jongin—God. Faster. Harder. Jongin. God.
They both come delirious. Their faces are flushed red in adrenaline. Jongin feels like he’s in the circuits of Baku or Monte Carlo from the exhaustion and scrutiny.
Kyungsoo slinks upwards and Jongin thinks the other man is going to do something. Instead, he cuddles Jongin, whispering, “Give me some more time.”
He gives all the time to Kyungsoo. Short fingers play with his brown hair in rhythm. Kyungsoo’s humming a melody that Jongin is unfamiliar with. It’s soothing and loving, like a lullaby, but with the sensuality of old jazz and modern RnB.
Jongin feels disgusting when the remnants of come they have missed when haphazardly wiping starts to dry. He shifts Kyungsoo from his hold but the man whines and clings to him harder. Jongin feels soft hands moving on the ridges of his abs and tracing the defined V of his hips. He moans.
He turns Kyungsoo to his side, spooning to shorter male. Jongin turns Kyungsoo’s head so he’s kissing him while slowly ing into the tight heat. He s Kyungsoo like a thorough lover and he drops a soft kiss on the bump of the older man’s spine. He showers the slight knobs protruding on the arc of Kyungsoo’s back with reverence.
This time, it is he who does the worshipping.
He has been told before that there are certain things professional athletes cannot keep. This—a hotel room somewhere, sometime, and his lips mouthing an I love you on the warm skin of Kyungsoo’s neck as they —
Jongin will take to his grave.
Abu Dhabi crackles with the fire of competition. Jongin has gotten texts from Kyungsoo and four selfies. He needs a first here to win the championship. If he drops to second, the older driver from Red Bull gets to win and retire with bang.
Fifty-five laps around the circuit in death-inviting speed and there’s going to be another trophy inside his cabinet. He kisses the photo of Kyungsoo like a good luck charm and he gets pole position from coming first during the qualifying rounds.
Jongin’s hands are steady and his eyes are focused towards the end. The thing about moving so fast is that one tends to leave behind all thoughts to the wind. His head is red-hot static and strategical computations. There’s more to Formula One racing that egos speeding down circuits all over the world.
The young upstart from Ferrari almost crashes into him on the fifty-fourth lap. On the fifty-fifth, Jongin is neck-to-neck with one of the drivers he has looked up to in his career. At that moment, he’s nothing more but a pesky rival. Jongin grits his teeth, steady, steady, steady, in climbing up and accelerating. He’s almost to the last turn, a sharp edge for a curve that has him holding his breath inside his helmet and—
There.
1:38:04 something.
“, yes! Jongin!” One of his mechanics screams.
There are congratulatory “Attaboy!” from the rest of the team. The media has gone wild with their cameras and all the jumping around. Jongin finishes first on top of the podium.
He wins the Word Drivers’ first for the second time. His teammate says it’s because he’s “inspired”.
Jongin feels his ears ring and his back ache from the hard slaps from almost everyone. He gives out an exuberant yell.
“Congratulations!” Kyungsoo shouts instead of a greeting. “You did it! Your second championship, Jongin!”
“I know,” Jongin breathes out, disbelieving after the high of the win. “Kyungsoo, I won.”
The older man sags on the couch he’s sitting at, boneless. There’s a smile playing on his lips and Jongin can recognize the pride in Kyungsoo’s eyes.
“You’re so amazing,” Kyungsoo whispers.
“You’re not so bad yourself.” Jongin puts the phone near his face and he stares at Kyungsoo’s soft expression. He can see the mole on the man’s top lip. He wants to kiss him so bad.
“I want to kiss you so bad,” Kyungsoo says. Jongin startles before grinning wide. He loves this man so, so much.
“Then meet me,” Jongin retorts. “I have nothing to do this off-season.”
Kyungsoo sighs, dejected, “I have.”
Jongin frowns at that. Kyungsoo has warned him over his schedule getting busier towards the end of the year with concerts and awards shows. He thinks Kyungsoo works too hard, sometimes, but he knows this is Kyungsoo’s passion. This is Kyungsoo’s dream and he respects and admires that.
“Don’t frown,” Kyungsoo scolds, gesturing to Jongin’s lips and then his furrowed brows. “You’re the winner, right? The best in the world.”
Jongin laughs at that, “Only this season.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Kyungsoo replies. “You’ll always be good enough for me, Jongin.”
He stops at that. His heart skips a beat or two. You’ll always be good enough for me. Jongin has spent most of his life trying to be enough, chasing after smoke and dust and breaking records. In his sport, nothing will ever suffice. But here is Kyungsoo, beautiful Do Kyungsoo, telling him he’s enough. He’s okay. He’s enough. His chest feels tight and his eyes heat up and water.
“Don’t cry,” Kyungsoo coos. One of his hands seem to caress his phone screen, as if wiping away the wetness on Jongin’s eyes tenderly. Jongin rubs it himself, giving a gummy smile. Kyungsoo beams at him like he’s the sun and he looks like all of Jongin’s dreams and hopes coming true at once.
He will never tell anyone this—not even Kyungsoo—but this moment. This moment is better than the championship by an infinity and then some.
Jongin is roped by an English midfielder he’s been friends with in his schoolboy days in a party somewhere warm. There are few destinations to choose from and Jongin refuses to spend it in the French Riviera. It’s not a vacation if he’s still near home, he reasons.
He wants to stay in Europe for a bit until Kyungsoo has freer schedules. He has tickets in various concert tours he’s planning on attending. His friend has insisted on a congratulatory party over his recent championship. The football star is on reserve after sustaining an injury. It’s also a pity party, Jongin thinks.
They fly private with a large entourage to Ibiza for a short holiday. Jongin packs light with barely anything on his luggage. It’s not like he’s picking up anyone. The only person he wants to impress is busy in South Korea and Japan and China.
Ibiza is cold and damp in December but barely anyone sticks to the island this time of the year for the beaches. The temptation of a party or twelve has them in Playa d’en Bossa. It’s all pulsating lights and trash music from famous DJs who pop pills while mixing beats. Jongin’s been here many times, with various people and various companies. His bed inside an expensive suite in one of the many hotels has been a witness to what athletic stamina and vodka shots can do to a person.
The night is young and the open-air venue of Ushuaïa has Jongin feeling mildly claustrophobic despite being in the VIP area. He shoots back a shot of his favorite poison, quickly followed by one more, before two girls in skimpy outfits start running their hands on his biceps.
Goosebumps rise on his skin and both girls drag him to the dance floor. Jongin feels a little delirious.
“Congratulations on winning, Kai,” the blonde one pressed in front of her purrs. Her bleached hair smells of salt and something floral. Jongin can taste the smoke on her tanned skin despite the distance between them.
“Thanks,” he says gruffly. The other girl behind him has one of her hands trying to slip inside his shirt. She’s whispering something in French that Jongin is too drunk to comprehend. He pulls her hand away before contact and she gets the hint. The other girl must have noticed his disinterest too, giving him space. They do not seem to have an intention to sleep with him. It’s all good fun and Jongin dances for a few minutes before leaving.
Jongin hits the bar and asks for something bright and fruity. The slant on the bartender’s eyebrows is a mixture of curiosity and ist insult. Jongin shrugs; no one will dare anyway. Kai Kim is a European figure of success and excess. Someone offers him a line to snort off of toned abs but he declines.
Jongin goes through the motion of the Ibiza nightlife. He misses Kyungsoo.
It’s not Ibiza unless the celebration extends to the sea. People in barely there clothes are aboard large yachts with flashing lights and free flowing alcohol. Jongin’s sitting down on the place of honor. Parties are all politics and popularity—it’s a little like high school and the government except everyone’s dressed inappropriately and bottles are popped in exuberance.
The music is not annoying this time. The darkness is too raw for anything pop and electronic. It’s slow and intimate, a mix of heavy bass like thumping heartbeats. It’s good music to grind and moan to. The calmness of the sea is a juxtaposition to the swaying bodies. The yacht is a detached dream floating in the waters of Ibiza and Jongin is used to the coldness of December when his insides are warm with vodka and gin and vermouth and fruit juice.
A man in black board shorts and white tank top saunters up to him, sitting down beside him and leaning on on the side where Jongin has his arm extended on the top of the seat. There’s a smirk playing on the man’s lips and his hands drag slowly to where the shirt clings on Abercrombie abs. Jongin gives a polite smile. There’s arrogance in the way the man carries himself, in the way he suddenly occupies the place beside Jongin.
Jongin has never seen the man before but he appreciates the other person’s generally appealing facial structure. Jongin wonders if he’s Spanish—a tanned brunet with blue eyes and a sharp jawline. His English is perfect without any trace of an accent.
He guesses the other man is some heir of something—conceited only because that’s the only thing he has known how to be his entire life. He plasters on a smirk and the man takes it as an invitation to push himself closer. Jongin backs away.
“Winners get to party hard.” The man lazily rolls the word hard on his tongue and Jongin notices the silver glint of a stud near the tip. “You don’t have to be lonely tonight.”
The implication is not lost on Jongin. He’s been in too many clubs and has seen and done his fair share of one night stands in dark hotel rooms with no words exchanged to pretend to be ignorant. If this is the old Kai Kim, he’ll sneer and take the offer. He would have pulled the man with a single touch, luring him inside the tight space of yacht bathrooms. Maybe he’ll get a out of it and heavy skin on skin. If he likes it enough, he would bring the man to where he’s staying, ing lazily under the influence of alcohol and maybe something more.
But Jongin has someone waiting for him somewhere. Pink lips and chubby cheeks and wide eyes and small stature and Jongin wants it to last. Jongin doesn’t want to up one of the good things in his life.
There’s no heat pooling low in his belly, no tinge of arousal, nothing. The other man’s smirk falters on his face and Jongin shakes his head apologetically.
“I have a special someone,” he admits. He takes a sip of his cocktail, savoring the sweetness and the bitter aftertaste. It tastes like all the calories he’s not allowed to have during the season.
The man’s posture straightens up, placing a distance between them. The smirk turns into a curious smile.
“Really? How long?”
“Not that long,” Jongin replies. He crosses his legs together, turning towards the man. “We met last February.”
“You sound so smitten,” the other man comments. Jongin should really ask for his name but identities are useless when they’re not going to each other. Red light throws a glint on the man’s eyes, it’s playful and open, interested not on Jongin but what he’s going to share. It’s a good change of pace. “Your person must be very special. Perfecto.”
“Yeah,” he says with a grin. “He’s perfect.” He leaves it at that—a half-lie and a half-truth. Kyungsoo is not perfect but, at the same time, he is. It’s something he cannot explain. Do Kyungsoo is a face he cannot comprehend.
“All the more reason to have fun, sí?” The man enthusiastically claps his hand. “Love is always worth celebrating.”
Jongin agrees and he lets the man grab one of his wrists, pulling him to the bar. Jongin throws his head back in loud laughter at the amusement of the scenario. The man turns to him with a wink, ordering a full bottle of vintage magnum.
He hands the heavy Dom Pérignon towards Jongin, urging him to pop it open. “For your love! Your special person! And the Drivers’ Championship, of course!”
Jongin grins wildly. For Kyungsoo. For the trophy. He likes the ring of that. He subconsciously shakes the large bottle, years of exploding the golden liquid over grinding bodies.
He pulls himself to stand on top of the counter and everyone hoots when he raises the champagne overheard. The man he’s met screams some more about Kai’s cariño and Jongin shoots the other a smile in agreement before popping the big bottle open.
Champagne showers on sweaty bodies and most people have their mouths open, tongues trying to chase the droplets of expensive liquid. Jongin laughs louder, shaking and waving the opened bottle like a maniac. Once it dies down, he takes a swig straight from the bottle amidst loud cheering.
“All drinks on me!” He announces, screaming loud over the trippy music and the psychedelic lights. “Love is always worth celebrating!”
Jongin wakes up with a hangover. The pounding in his head is increasingly unpleasant. His phone displays too many missed calls from his agent. He has barely straightened up when it rings again. He groans at the high-pitched trills and he considers throwing his phone on the wall. But Jongin knows his agent will skin him alive if he ignores his 34th phone call.
“Yeah?” He groans. “What’s wrong?”
Jongin’s eyes are still bleary and his limbs feel boneless as he listens to the man on the other line rant. His eyes widen considerably when the heated tirade is done.
“,” Jongin whispers. “What the .”
He’s not that articulate in the mornings after drinking. His agent echoes his sentiment before he gives grim instructions—stay put, stay quiet, stay away from social media—before hanging up.
Jongin wants to punch something.
Kyungsoo doesn’t reply to any of his messages. His phone is dead and neither of s are talking to him. He wants to explain himself, to apologize, maybe go on his knees and grovel. Whatever it takes, he thinks. If Kyungsoo wants him to race after him then Jongin will.
Jongin will race after Kyungsoo.
(He’s the best damn racer in the world.)
Junmyeon storms through their practice room with a death grip on his Macbook. Kyungsoo worries about the other’s knees when he drops on the floor, scooting to where he and Baekhyun are chatting.
“Kyungsoo,” Junmyeon pants. His hand trembles when he opens the laptop. “Have you seen this?”
“Seen what?”
“Jongin’s on the news,” Junmyeon replies stoically. There’s an undercurrent of anger simmering on his tone despite the way he tries to sound monotone. Junmyeon has always had a hard time trying to hide when he’s mad. The leader shows the page to Kyungsoo, grabbing Kyungsoo’s hand and placing it on the trackpad, a silent permission for him to read.
Kyungsoo’s eyes widen but his lips purse tightly at the pictures and the implications displayed on the screen. The translation from English to Korean is horrible at best but Kyungsoo is not stupid enough to miss the elephant-sized suggestions being dropped.
There are multiple photos of Jongin—with two women in an open-air club, with a man on a crowded deck of a yacht. Most of them are not paparazzi shots but screen captures from Snapchat or links to Instagram pages.
There’s one of Jongin in between two skimpily dressed women. There’s nothing malicious about the photo but Kyungsoo feels something clench in his chest irrationally. Jongin’s painted in bright pink and his clothes are a little rumpled. Most of the page is devoted to Jongin and another man, sharp cheekbones and blue eyes. Kyungsoo continues to scroll.
There are pictures of the man leaning towards Jongin closely and Baekhyun gasps, wrapping one arm on Kyungsoo’s shoulder and pressing close. The younger doesn’t shake him off as the barrage of photos continue. There are more with the two of them laughing and there’s even a video of it too. The man places a distance between the two of them after Jongin has said something. The music drowns it out and Kyungsoo vaguely wonders if this is what they play in Ibiza. It sounds unlike the loud shrieking of electronic pop that Jongin is so adamant on hating. There’s a photo of Jongin standing on the bar counter with champagne drizzling on the people below.
The next ones are taken secretly—or maybe not. Kyungsoo’s not really sure how it works in Europe. But his head hurts at the succession of images that has Jongin stumbling out after the man in a Rolls Royce, going inside the hotel.
The article pushes it even further, bringing up old pictures from almost two years ago. Jongin in Moscow with a man and a woman. Jongin in New York. Jongin in Ibiza and Monte Carlo and Budapest. Clubs also look the same in every parts of the world—like hotel rooms. There are photos of Jongin kissing a woman under low lighting, his hands almost on the swell of her . There are photos of his tongue visible when in the middle of locking lips with various people. Jongin has had a fun time during his first championship.
Kyungsoo finishes the article, resolutely staring Junmyeon in the eye. He’s waiting for the inevitable lecture from—
“There are people who would date you because you’re a celebrity,” Junmyeon says softly. There’s nothing admonishing about it, there’s no pity. It’s a matter of fact.
There are people who would date other people because of their status.
“I know.” Kyungsoo does. He knows. His stomach feels empty but there’s bile threatening to come up on his throat.
“Kyungsoo,” Junmyeon begins. He shuffles closer and the younger feels Baekhyun’s hand squeeze his shoulder. The man doesn’t say anything. Kyungsoo hears the blood rushing in his veins and the rhythm of his pulse. He feels tired all of a sudden.
“I don’t want you to be another trophy on Kai Kim’s long list of achievements.”
Kyungsoo throws himself to practice and vocal training. His limbs are aching and his throat is scratchy from pushing himself too hard. The eyes of s are all trained on him most of the time. Sehun offers him a pat and a juice box. His phone remains turned off.
It’s a little over twelve hours when he opens it again. They are about to fly out to Osaka for a three-day Exo’rdium tour in Kyocera Dome. Kyungsoo is unsurprised when he finds it pinging with missed calls and numerous text messages.
Jongdae growls, “Those better not be from the bastard.”
Kyungsoo doesn’t answer. It’s Jongin. All of them are from Jongin. His texts go from apologetic to borderline anguished. Some are in Korean but there are some written in English. There are typos riddled on most of them.
Kyungsoo reads them through and he imagines Jongin’s face when he’s typing out his apology and explanation.
The photos do not mean anything.
It’s a chance meeting in a party.
Kyungsoo doesn’t know how to respond. He feels like he should be mad—or that he should ignore Jongin without texting back. He should want to block the man’s number. But he can’t. He doesn’t want to. Jongin does not deserve that but he also doesn’t trust himself to speak calmly without jumping to conclusions. His fingers shake when he types out his reply.
Sorry. I’m not ready to talk to you right now. Please give me more time. I’m not breaking up with you.
He leaves the yet hanging, unsure of what to do and how to move.
Kyungsoo, no matter how much he hides, is in pain. But it’s not whole-hearted pain. It’s different—like he’s stuck in a limbo, suspended in a vacuum. There’s a little bit of fright clouding his senses, scared of hearing Jongin’s explanations. There’s no way he’ll know which ones are the truths and which ones are the lies.
There are men who date celebrities to date celebrities.
He hopes to hear the good thing, the nice thing. Kyungsoo doesn’t think Jongin is the type to cheat but appearances can fool a person. Kyungsoo muses, a little morbidly, if Blue Eyes is also lured the same way as he is—slightly tipsy but hungry, deliciously bothered by Jongin’s hot breath and gold skin.
There are men who date celebrities to date celebrities.
Kyungsoo knows.
Kyungsoo’s fine. He’s fine.
Kyocera Dome is smaller than Tokyo Dome but it’s still one of the bigger arenas Kyungsoo has been in. The stage is a little closer to the fans this time and he runs his eyes with a practiced smile to the eager faces clamoring for a bit of his attention. Fanservice is as much of a performance as the notes vibrating in Kyungsoo’s throat.
On the third row of the nearest box, Kyungsoo almost forgets the lyrics and the note he’s holding almost falters if not for the tight grip on his microphone. It feels like dèjá vu.
Jongin’s standing there with a solemn expression. There’s a small smile playing on his lips like he’s glad to see Kyungsoo on stage. His lightstick illuminates his face, accentuating the height of his cheekbones and the plumpness of his lips. He looks so handsome carrying that embarrassing lamb doll that always sends warmth to Kyungsoo’s cheeks and the tips of his ears.
That’s the man whom Kyungsoo loves.
Jongin is there on the second day—on the same section but, this time, on the second row. Kyungsoo’s grin turns more genuine and he watches as Jongin’s small smile transforms into a relieved grin. And then something full-blown, something bright. Kyungsoo wonders if Jongin can light up the entire arena with a single smile. His eyes have disappeared in the lovely crescents that fill Kyungsoo’s dreams. One of the younger’s hand wiggles Dyolamb’s tiny arm as if saying hello.
That’s the man whom Kyungsoo loves.
Kyungsoo figures that the series of ba-dump, ba-dump, badump, ba-dump, badump, badump on his chest is not because of the bass but because of Jongin.
His heartbeat is out of rhythm.
Kyungsoo wakes up on the eleventh a little groggy. Three-day concerts take their tolls on all of them. Three days of selling dreams and themselves in the form of music and performances. Kyungsoo powers through aching bones and cramping muscles in an almost routine pace.
He has barely finished his breakfast, opting to chug two cups of coffee to keep himself awake. Junmyeon has been eyeing him since the moment he has seen him. Kyungsoo is not in the mood to dissect any of s’ weird behavior.
Someone grins at him at the moment he steps out of the van in the staff entrance of the stadium. They’re a almost an hour early ahead of schedule today and they are ushered in quickly and Kyungsoo feels his nerves becoming jittery.
There’s a will Jongin be there? on the tip of his tongue.
He’s surprised when he turns into a corner and—roses.
The hallway is lined with clear plastic pails filled to the brim with blood red roses. Kyungsoo gapes at the arrangements, fingers running on the soft petals. There must be at least a thousand of them. The red stands stark on the plain white walls. Kyungsoo follows the trail helplessly. Reaching their dressing room, the buckets still continue on.
“Follow it, Kyungsoo,” Junmyeon grins. His eyes look a little watery and Kyungsoo senses the embarrassment building inside him when Junmyeon shoots him twin finger guns before leading the rest of the leering members inside.
Kyungsoo follows the roses like a map and sure enough—Jongin.
“There you are,” the younger man says, breathy. He’s carrying a single rose on his hand and there’s one perched on his right ear. Red doesn’t just look good on white; it looks even better against gold.
Jongin has always been golden—even without the accolades.
Kyungsoo steps closer, closer, closer. His heart wants to burst out of his chest. The stem on the rose in Jongin’s hand is trimmed down shortly. He offers it to Kyungsoo with a sheepish smile. He’s embarrassed, Kyungsoo notes. That makes two of them.
“So we match?” There’s a hint of uncertainty under the conviction in Jongin’s voice.
Kyungsoo looks up at Jongin’s eyes and, despite the hopefulness and slight desperation, the taller man seems so sure, so honest, so bare in front of Kyungsoo.
He takes the flower and places it on his ear.
(That’s the man whom Kyungsoo loves.)
Jongin’s sitting sprawled on the floor with Kyungsoo beside him. They both have fifteen minutes before the singer has to go back to his own dressing room. Their thighs touch, Jongin’s denim and Kyungsoo’s sweatpants.
The older is gripping Jongin’s hand, playing with the calloused hands and tracing the various lines on Jongin’s palm. They haven’t stopped smiling and the rose is still on each of their ears.
“Kyungsoo,” Jongin breaks the comfortable silence, “please let me explain.”
The smaller man hums. His legs reach only Jongin’s shin. He says, “Later. After the concert. Let’s talk.”
Jongin whispers a quiet alright before he leans his head on Kyungsoo’s shoulder. Kyungsoo continues Jongin’s hand.
“I’m sorry,” the younger man croaks out after a minute. “Don’t break up with me.”
“After, Jongin,” Kyungsoo insists. “We’ll talk after, okay?
Kyungsoo stays back in Japan after the last concert to talk to Jongin. This time, it’s Chanyeol and Baekhyun who have stayed with him to keep up appearances. One of the perks of being a fifth year major moneymaker is management going lax on them.
He goes up on Jongin’s suite and the door swings open to reveal an anxious looking man. Kyungsoo grabs Jongin’s hand, leading the man inside his own room. They settle in the sitting area and Kyungsoo makes himself comfortable.
The moment Kyungsoo faces Jongin, the man takes both of Kyungsoo’s hands in his. They maneuver so they’re facing each other one-on-one.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is barely above a whisper but it’s as loud as a scream in the dead quiet of the suite. “But I’m telling the truth when I say nothing happened in Ibiza. I was at a party and danced with girls. The photos with another man was blown out of proportion. He tried hitting on me, sure, but I made it clear that I have a special someone. And it’s you.”
Kyungsoo listens attentively. Jongin’s breathing is steady and the softness of his voice doesn’t betray the confidence in his story. It doesn’t seem like a lie but Kyungsoo’s an idol, an actor, a celebrity.
“Then what are you sorry for?”
Jongin takes a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily. He squeezes Kyungsoo’s hands in his. “I’m sorry because I made you feel bad.”
Kyungsoo leans on Jongin’s chest and Jongin’s hands goes around him, linked on the bottom of his spine.
“You made me feel bad and I was mad at you,” the older man whispers. He removes his head and goes up on his knees so he’s kneeling on the couch, facing Jongin. His hands cup the man’s face, rubbing the skin stretched on cheekbones lightly.
“I have no way of knowing if what you’re saying is real or not—” Kyungsoo places his index finger on Jongin’s mouth, cutting off any protest or explanation. “—but you’re not a bad person. I may not know who Kai Kim is but I do know Kim Jongin. He’s kind and cheesy and a romantic. He used to party a lot but he got scolded by Mercedes and made his mom cry so he stopped. He failed his first civilian driving test because he can’t park properly and he failed the next because he almost gave his instructor a heart attack because he’s so used to driving Formula Ones.”
He pauses a bit and he kisses the tip of Jongin’s nose and then his lips. It’s short but it’s satisfying in a way only this kind of kisses can be. “I told you before that you’re good enough for me. And it hasn’t changed, Jongin. I love you and you’re good enough for me.”
Another thing that Kyungsoo has known about Kim Jongin—the man looks ugly when he cries.
(Jongin returns the words when he’s calmed down, hiccuping on the word love and making Kyungsoo laugh out loud.)
Jongin and Kyungsoo are fine. They’re fine.
Kyungsoo supposes it’s coincidence, meeting Jongin’s eyes in the front rows of a fashion show he can’t even remember. Jongin admits to being curious about him, teasing him because he has thought Kyungsoo has an idea who he is.
“I don’t even know what a Formula One is before we met,” Kyungsoo has deadpanned. Jongin claims to be so offended that he has to kiss Kyungsoo breathless before tickling him to submission. The older man kicks Jongin straight on the nose.
Jongin’s sleeping on Kyungsoo’s chest soundly. Kyungsoo has woken up early on the morning of December 12th. Today marks their tenth month since meeting each other. Kyungsoo watches Jongin doze, each of their hands intertwined tightly.
Neither of them wants to let go.
There’s a myth to the reality of their story. It’s quiet. If Kyungsoo has to compare it to something, he thinks they’re a little like old films without any sound, just motions and expressive emotions. Or maybe snapshots—a collection of stilled photographs appearing and disappearing on screen.
“Good morning, Kyungsoo.”
The said man is startled from himself when Jongin rouses from his slumber. He places his hand on Kyungsoo’s lips before he leans in, kissing the back of his hand.
“Morning breath,” Jongin reasons. He stretches his arms wide, careful not to hit a ducking Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo watches the skin on Jongin’s chest and arms shift over the movements of his muscles.
Jongin looks like a god reborn when the early morning light hits him just so. The finite expanse of his skin is the infinity Kyungsoo wants to touch and kiss.
“What are you looking at, ?” Jongin teases.
“You.”
Kyungsoo supposes he can be honest once in a while.
Switzerland chills Kyungsoo’s bones with its picture perfect white snow. It’s quiet in the countryside and Jongin has expressed that one of the appeals of the property is the long stretch of road. He’s in front of the fireplace, cuddling Dyolamb close to his chest while they both lie down on the plush rug in front of the heat. His socks are a mismatched and he’s in a pair of thick flannel pajamas and an old oversized sweater that may or may not be his.
“Kyungsoo, please,” Jongin whines, disturbing the serenity. “Let’s go on a drive.”
“I don’t want to change out of my pajamas,” he says.
Jongin waves a thick parka around, enthusing, “You don’t have to! We’ll just go get warm food and then go back. We can watch movies after.”
Kyungsoo pretends to heave a put upon sigh but the corners of his lips twitch to show his mirth.
“Okay, you big baby.” Kyungsoo stands up from the rug, bringing the doll with him.
“Your baby,” Jongin drawls, not-winking, before he bundles Kyungsoo in his marshmallow jacket.
“Gross.”
Kyungsoo’s sitting on the leather seat of Jongin’s LaFerrari in his flannel pajamas and Nike sneakers. Dyolamb is on his lap and Jongin is on the driver’s side buckling himself up. The car purrs like a well-trained lover and the younger man is careful to maintain his speed on the road.
He reaches for one of Jongin’s hands, detaching it from the wheel. Jongin can drive one-handed without any problem. The taller man smiles wide, squeezing Kyungsoo’s stubby fingers. Kyungsoo returns the gesture before bringing the larger hand to his lips.
The car zooms almost lazily on the road. Kyungsoo smiles to himself, kissing each finger softly. On Jongin’s thumb—their first meeting. On his index finger—the way the man would caress Kyungsoo’s face from his phone screen. On his middle finger—the spontaneity of escaping from the public’s eyes. On his ring finger—the lull in their relationship that makes Kyungsoo move and makes Jongin’s world stop. On his little finger—a promise.
Kyungsoo thinks, finally—a home.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
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