“Expansive! Be more expansive! Burst off the canvas! You’re not bursting enough!” Ravi cried, arms flung out over his head. The solemn revelation from the day before was shrinking away.

“I’ll burst you if you don’t shut up!” Ken yelled back, eyebrows huddled over his eyes as his mouth laughed.

“More bursting, Kenneth!” Ravi turned a pirouette with his arms still flung. “I need you to explode across the picture plane!”

A hand smacked against his shoulder and he was shoved off balance.

“Don’t call me Kenneth,” Ken grumbled and shook his head. “Can we get back to work now? Can you tell me what you think?”

Ravi laughed, picking himself back up from the floor of the studio and nodded.

“Yes,” He came to wrap his arms around Ken’s middle. “Yes, we can… Kenneth.”

A sharp elbow dug into his ribs, Ravi’s arms popped open and he gave a squark of pain. Flutters of magenta floated through the room and he rubbed his sore ribs. Ken was already lost in his artwork again, eyes narrowed as he scrutinised it.

“What is your actual name?” Ravi asked suddenly, coming to stand beside Ken.

“Jaehwan. Lee Jaehwan, nice to meet you.” He parroted in a distracted voice. Ravi gave a smile in reply. “But I’m more used to Ken now.”

“Why?”

“I did an exchange in Europe. We chose Western names to make it easier. It kind of stuck.” Ken turned away from the canvas. “You’re one to talk, at least my pseudonym makes a little sense.”

“Ravi means delighted in French*.” He smiled indulgently as he thought of Ken swanning through Europe. “I didn’t know you did an exchange.”

“Mm hmm. With Leo.” Ken turned away once more.

“What’s his real name?” Ravi wondered. “What did you study?”

“Art, of course.” The comment was thrown away, not even bothering to look back as he said it.

Ravi straightened a little, brows quirking together. “Where?” He watched the paint mix and smear into the rest on the canvas as Ken worked.

“Belgium.” Ken’s voice was losing power, as though it was being away and into the painting.

Ravi smiled, walking through the room to stand at the window while Ken worked. His fingers were beginning to itch. A deep, niggling sensation of need.

Hyuk’s dark car slid into a park, Hongbin’s bright red motorcycle in the space beside his. His eyes flicked to the clock in the car, checking if he was late again. The dial told him he was perfectly on time. With slow movements he climbed out and crossed to the lobby door.

The lobby was mostly empty, the occasional business man or woman walking rushing through to press a button for the elevator. Hyuk checked the message on his phone and stepped into the elevator beside a well-dressed woman. The silence was thick as he waited for the doors to open on the fourth floor. It was a generic office building hall. Bad carpet and doors lining the walls. A sign directly opposite the elevator read ‘Suites 401 - 405: Left. Suites 406 - 410: Right’, another check of his phone and Hyuk moved down the hall, business shoes scuffing on the carpet slightly.

403. He gave a tentative knock, completely bemused by everything. If it wasn’t for the presence of Hongbin’s motorcycle in the carpark he would have turned back at the first sign of an empty lobby.

The door of the suite opened and Hongbin appeared. His face was bright with a smile as he beckoned Hyuk into the room behind him.

“Hongbin,” Hyuk began, following blindly, “What is this pl—” His voice died.

The room was well lit with diffused light, a messy table standing off to one side and a long bench along a wall. Two doors were set into the far wall with lights over them. None of that made any impact on Hyuk. He was taken in by the photographs lining every available surface of the room. There were strips scattered in one corner, slowly lightening from dark to overbright. The same photo repeated in varying shades and tones along the wall, another one below it in the same shade reiterations. In the middle of the room, laying on the floor side-by-side, were four portraits. Each equally beautiful and painful to look at.

Hyuk felt something fracture in his heart and let his shoulders drop toward the floor. One of those portraits was him. He looked ragged, his eyes deep in the sockets and harsh dark marks beneath them. His hair was combed and neat but his skin looked sallow, even in the shades of grey. The longer he looked at the photo the more he saw that looked worn and broken.

The portrait left him raw. Almost desperately he looked at the other photos instead. The one beside him on the right was Ravi. Somehow this photograph made him feel worse than his own. Wonshik’s hair was a mess, as though hands had run through and stirred it in anguish. His cheeks were gaunt and hollowed slightly as his mouth almost pursed. The eyes were dead. Hyuk felt he could stare straight through into darkness as he looked at Ravi’s empty eyes.

“What is this?” Hyuk finally struggled out.

“It’s grief.” Hongbin’s voice was a whisper. “It’s us…”

Hyuk tore his eyes from Ravi’s to look at Hongbin. He was clasping his hands together, a stilted set to his shoulders as he waited for Hyuk to speak again.

“Where was this photo taken?” He already knew. He knew where the photos were from. He could remember now, watching Hongbin move like a ghost with his camera hiding his face as the rest of them mumbled quietly in the overfull room.

There was a low murmur, the incessant buzzing of a beetle as the rest of the guests spoke about Choi Sungmi’s life. People sipped wine and coffee, nibbled at sandwiches. Sandwiches were the food of sadness. At the edge of the humming crowd Wonshik was standing at the window, occasionally people attempted to approach him, to offer condolences or speak of his mother. Hyuk would step between them, take the words and the stab of pain they caused, and send the guest along. He could see Hakyeon, sitting in a group of models as they all sipped from glasses silently.

“The wake.” Hongbin’s voice brought him back to the present. “The day of the funeral.”

“Why are you showing me this?” Hyuk turned his back on the photos and their painful memories.

Hongbin’s face spasmed, moving through exasperated to irritated and settling on resigned amusement. Hyuk waited for an answer, completely at sea.

“Because I want an exhibition.” His voice was strong and determined.

Hyuk nodded slowly in reply. He was the man to see for the chance at an exhibition. But so were Hongbin’s own parents. The model probably had just as many contacts to galleries as Hyuk himself.

“And because I wanted you to be the first one to see them.”

“Why?” Hyuk’s word popped out his mouth, an inkling of denial spreading through his toes.

Hongbin gave a great sigh, raising his eyes to the ceiling and back down to Hyuk.

“You know, I wanted it to be like a movie or fairytale,” He began, hands coming to his hips. “But you’re so dense I’ll have to spell it out for you.”

Hyuk grinned with confusion, enjoying this version of Hongbin much more than the quiet timid man he had seen a moment ago.

“I have a crush on you. A big one. And you’re way too wrapped up in things that don’t matter to see it. Or me.” He glared at Hyuk for a moment. “So here it is, the last chance, the final hurrah of me trying to get your attention before I give up and move on.”

The grin faded, eyebrows crawling together as Hyuk listened closely.

“Crush? On me?” He tried to keep his stammer under control.<