Sehun hates Seoul, the lingering scent of coffee and smog. The blinking lights late at night that obstruct his sleep and the honking cars that merge with the sound of bordering restaurants and loud neighbors.

He’ll leave one day.

Probably.

Maybe.

His cousin Jessica had dragged him out of bed,— on a too cold for comfort Saturday during winter— forced him to stack on layers of clothing and trek down to Hongdae to check out a gallery she’d wanted to see.

You’re an art major right? She’d coaxed with a squeaky voice, a welcoming cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin the size of his hand.

He could have said no. He should have said no, because the pile of unfinished work and projects on the desk adjacent to his bed were yelling at him to stay home and finish them. But Jessica was right, he was an art major, and this could very well be considered studying.

Depending on how one looked at it of course.

✖

Sehun finds himself wandering in the dimly lit gallery alone when Jessica gravitates to the owner— a pink-haired man donning half-moon sunglasses named Jiyong.

He likes this scent, oil pastels and acrylic and clay. It’s the smell he’d grown accustomed to, the smell he’d craved late at night when the overwhelming aroma of gasoline and samgyupsal floated into his bedroom— Sehun supposed it was his fault; he could never sleep with the window closed.

He feels painfully mediocre, subpar even, surrounded by works he could only dream of creating.

There’s one that catches his eye, splashes of variations of brown, forming a portrait of someone Sehun doesn’t know— and he doesn’t think he’s supposed to know, anyway.

“Do you like it?” The voice is deep and smooth, and it sends shivers down Sehun’s arm. He doesn’t turn around, not that he has the time to, because the owner of the voice is next to him in seconds. “It’s mine. Tea staining.”

The man next to Sehun is unnervingly gaunt, bags darker than his irises under his eyes. Bone sticks out from every bit of exposed skin, jutting more than normal. A walking skeleton.

“Is it? Who’s the person?”

“A friend.” He scratches at his arm, tries to nick away the discomfort. “An old friend, really.”

Sehun wants to say something, what it is, he doesn’t really know, but Jessica sidles up to his side, curving thin fingers around his wrist. Let’s go, she mutters and the man next to Sehun watches with little to no interest. Jessica pulls, and Sehun nods in his direction.

“I’m Jongin.” He says to Sehun’s retreating back. “Come back some time.”

✖

It’s an entire month, probably more, before Sehun sees Jongin again.

It’s on a train late at night, when Sehun’s bones are weary from walking and his mind is clouded with future projects and the like. He doesn’t notice him— not that he should, he’s technically a person he’d only met once, far too long ago for him to properly remember. But Jongin notices him, and he walks over, all rattling bones and taut skin, tired smiles and wistful glances.

“Do you remember me?” Jongin sits down, leans his head against the window and closes his eyes for a few seconds. He’s clearly tired, it shows in the lines of his skin, the knuckles standing sickly white against tanned hands, and the strenuous breaths that leave his lips. “Jongin. From the art gallery.”

He holds out his hand and for fleeting seconds, Sehun is hesitant to take it in his own, because his skin looks so fragile; like it’s going to rip at the softest touch.

“Sehun.”

His hand is cold, and Jongin’s is unfittingly warm, so he pulls away. Rests his hand back on his lap and scoots a little further down his seat. Jongin moves closer, smiles.

Sehun smiles too, he doesn’t mean to, but he feels like he’s a reflection of Jongin. In the oddest sense; a mirror of his actions. Jongin smiled. He smiled too.

“Do you live around here, Sehun?” Jongin twirls his fingers, Sehun twirls his fingers too. “You never came back.”

He waits for a moment to answer, decides to listen to the train run over the tracks; just for a few seconds. His stop is nearing and he figures he shouldn’t leave Jongin waiting. It’s rude.

“No, I—” He gestures at the backpack by his side, smiles sheepishly and hopes it’d be enough of an answer. It’s not of course, and Jongin tilts his head just slightly. “I go to school here.”

“You go to school here but you never came back?” Jongin frowns, so does Sehun.

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know why he’s apologizing, he’s not obligated to. “I’ve been busy.” Sehun’s stop is nearing, but it feels like the train has slowed down, stuck in coats of uneasiness and struggling to get out.

 Jongin stays silent for the rest of the ride and waits until Sehun is halfway off the train before smiling.

“Promise you’ll visit soon.” And the doors are closing and Sehun finds himself standing on the platform, confused and excited and a lot of other things but mostly cold, because his jacket is too thin and he misses the warmth Jongin provided.

“I promise.”

✖

He hadn’t planned on visiting anytime soon— he was never really good with keeping promises—, but when he’s halfway through class and can’t find his anatomy textbook, it dawns on him that he’d left it on the train.

Along with Jongin. And he probably had it right now.

Jiyong greets him with a tip of his sunglasses and where’s the babe? Which Sehun replies to with a shrug and an inquiry of Jongin’s location. Jiyong juts his thumb to the back, make a left, you’ll see two doors, don’t go in the one with the big red x on it. It’s a little more complex than he really needed to be, he could have just said door on the right.

Jongin has his back to Sehun when he comes in, stood in front of a canvas, paintbrush in one hand a cup of tea in the other.

He doesn’t want to bother Jongin, not when he’s like this, flicking his wrist and staring at the canvas so intently, only pausing to take sips of tea. A few more seconds to savor the caffeine flowing through blood, and gliding down bones and warming cool skin, and then he’s back to work.

Sehun hadn’t said anything, nor had he made any indication that he was in the room, but Jongin turned around, smiled again.

So did Sehun.

“You came back,” he sets down his cup, places the brush behind his ear. “it’s a good thing you did, you left your book on the train.”

“Yeah, that’s why—”

“That’s why you came.” Jongin finishes, fishing through stacks of paper and paint tubes before handing Sehun his textbook.

Sehun nods, takes the book and shifts his gaze back to the painting. An abundance of leaves, fallen from now bare trees. That’s all it is but he can’t look away. Jongin catches him and smiles; a little light warming up the dead in his eyes.

“Do you know what art is, Sehun?” Jongin takes a seat on a nearby stool, picks up his tea again. “The dictionary definition is the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination. Somewhat accurate, isn’t it? But then again, not really.”

Jongin frowns, tells Sehun to take a seat and offers him a cup of tea, which Sehun declines.

“That art— the dictionary classification, I mean— it has a set of rules, and I’m not too fond of that. Art shouldn’t have rules. Don’t you agree?” Sehun says nothing. “Are you sure you don’t want any tea? It’s great, calms you to the core. Gong mei tea.”

“If you insist.”

✖

“Come back again. We can get coffee or something.” Jongin whispers after hours have passed and Sehun wraps a wool scarf around his neck, textbook packed securely in his backpack. “I’ll be waiting.”

✖

Weeks pass and they become closer.

Months pass and Jongin falls in love.

A year flies by and Sehun does too.