Did I really just turn a dream I had into a 9,100 word oneshot? :O

The pub was crowded when Jongin made his arrival known, elbowing fellow patrons from his path as he pushed and shoved his way to Baekhyun’s side.  The smaller man was dressed as usual, work trousers covered in paint smears everywhere his apron hadn’t covered. Hints of blues and reds in the shapes of rubbed fingerprints etched across his forehead in several places. Jongin had to laugh, but it was a typical sight and he himself wasn’t much well off.

“Looks like you’ve been groveling in the ink splatters again,” Baekhyun said with a haughty tone. Jongin turned his palms over to reveal the dark splotches he’d gained from today’s work at the newspaper.

“Well, not everyone can keep themselves fully employed by art alone.”

Baekhyun scoffed. The both knew well enough that Baekhyun’s paintings barely kept him fed and housed. If not for a very tiny inheritance left by an uncle and the current patronage of a wealthier couple who found his art amusing (‘the ignorance of the upper classes’), he’d be in rags begging on the street. The inheritance money kept him dry and mostly warm in winter. The patronage kept him and his friends in beer night after night, and what was left over went towards his paints and colors, brushes and canvases. Never let it be said that Baekhyun didn’t have his priorities in order. Friends always come first.

Jongin accepted the pint of ale his way with a grunt, his own special way of showing gratitude. “I hear Suho’s to make a speech tonight,” he said after a seconds-long chug.

“Right moving it’ll be, I’m sure,” said Baekhyun with a yawn. “Can’t be said he doesn’t have the heart.”

“Yeah, but if he just had the charisma to match… Maybe I should offer to write his speech for him.”

“Wouldn’t matter.”

“True, that.” Jongin thought it a pity the party had made Suho their front man. The man was much more adroit behind an easel than in front of an audience, where everything he said came out in a droll monotone, however passionate about the subject he may actually be. Artists could be finicky like that, geniuses in one field, a dunce in others. He remembered well the time Baekhyun handed him a paint brush. After the garble of lines he managed to create in uneven , he’d never been offered a chance again. He’d be better off sticking to his words, where there is beauty in structure.

“How’s the pamphlet coming? You know we want those to distribute for tomorrow’s demonstration, right?”

Now it was Jongin’s time to smile back, proudly. “Completed! Done. Why do you think I was so late today?”

“You even got them printed?”

Jongin nodded. “Boss man let me use the old press. He’s a sympathizer alright, not that you’ll ever see him at a public meeting house.” That Jongdae fellow really was too much; much too clever to stick his nose out further than he could pull it back into safety. Jongin had no use for the kind of men who wouldn’t take a risk for a comrade.

“You’re scorching him inside your head, aren’t you?” Baekhyun gave him that knowing smile.

“Of course!”

No use denying it. Baekhyun knew him too well for Jongin to lie. Their opinion of the newspaper boss was one of their few differences. Whereas Jongin gave the man little sympathy, Baekhyun had been subtly affiliated with him for years and approved of him in a quiet way. Over the years Jongdae would occasionally publish Baekhyun’s lesser offensive drawings in the paper, the ones that seemed innocuous, but were still a little too modern for the government’s taste. Just enough to leave a mark, but nothing to be questioned for. Well, except for that one time, but fortunately that arrest and subsequent charge of immorality due to the lewd nature his paintings [coincidentally one of Kai’s favorites] had ended after just a single night. Jongin was there to pick up Baekhyun from the police station in the morning, after the painter promised to tone down the content of his art. He’d been forced to sign a contract promising to promote art of a more edifying nature. Baekhyun had immediately gone home and begun a new abstract, a grotesque depiction of the urban streetlight in all of its predawn gore.

 Jongin slammed down his empty pint on the counter. Next to it sat two of Baekhyun’s already drained mugs. He hailed the bartender for another round, this one on him.

“Ahh yes, before I forget. I found some you some new models.”

“Not those retired madams again, I trust?” Baekhyun looked bored at the prospect.

“Nahh, not them. Young ones!”

Still Baekhyun frowned. “Forget it. I’m tired of drawing people. Landscapes are good enough for me.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Yeah, maybe I’m not. Just tired of the usual subject matter.” Before he looked away to receive the new mug of ale, Jongin caught a glint of something mischievous in Baekhyun’s eyes. “Say, what about you become my model?”

“Me?” Jongin laughed. “Forget it. I’m too rugged.”

“And what if I want to paint rugged now?” A minute ago Jongin could swear Baekhyun was being too serious, but now he’s almost playful. Maybe it was the alcohol getting to them but he swore he could feel Baekhyun’s eyes raking across his face in an examination that was just a little too detailed for the level of their friendship. Baekhyun squinted his eyes, then with a little nod brought up an index finger and poked Jongin in the cheek. “Yes. You’ll do.”

Jongin laughed again, his hesitancy at the prospect noticeable. “Okay let’s talk about this later, huh?”

“Yeah, sure. After the speech.”

“Right.”

---

It was past midnight when Baekhyun lead Jongin back to his room, a hovel in the working class quarter of town just above the butcher’s shop. Baekhyun’s ‘studio’ took up most of the space, several easels standing in various corners with their current projects covered up by cloth, half a dozen of small piles and materials and supplies laying around on the floor. He was lucky enough to have room for a bed though it was hardly worthy of the name. Jongin thought it had seen better days a few centuries ago, yet he knew from experience that when you were cold and tired it could be comfortable enough. He’d crashed here a few too many drunk times.

Baekhyun lit up a kerosene lamp that stood on a small table in the middle of the room, then moved to one of the easels.

“So where do I strip?” Jongin joked, hoping rather that this would remain a joke.

“Spare me the indecency,” Baekhyun responded dryly. “I just want your face.”

“Oh well, if you’re sure about that…”

From across the room Baekhyun glared at him impatiently. Jongin ignored him and instead took a seat on an unbalanced chair next to the table. The painter turned his back and with great care drew back the cloth to reveal the mostly painted outline of a mountain background in blues and whites with a vivid red skyline. It was a vibrant, eye-catching landscape, with a demure brownish sun and trees the color of smoldering fire. Yet it was the foreground that really caught his attention. In crude broad was the outline of two men standing side by side, arms slung low across each other’s backs and their faces angled forwards peering off into the distance. One of the faces Jongin recognized as Baekhyun’s own. Through the heavy brush lines, there was Baekhyun’s tiny round face and wide pressed lips, and the hint a day’s stubble coming through the canvas. His eyes were lined larger than normal by the heavy black paint he’d used to draw his own sloping eye shape.

The other face remained a blank.

“What is this painting called?”

“Two Brothers.”

“Am I going in this body here?” Jongin indicated the still white hole in the face of the second man.

“I don’t see another model sitting around here, do you?”

Jongin glanced around the room just for humor’s sake. “Nope! Guess I’m it then. How do you want me.”

“Just sit there. I need to get my tools ready.”

“You’re going to paint me now? It’s late.”

“If you’re that much of a pansy, there’s the bed. Tuck yourself in nicely but leave me your face.”

Jongin chuckled. “Nah, I’ll sit up.” He settled into the uncomfortable chair to watch Baekhyun prepare his things, and he must have dozed off or lost track of a little time because his next memory was of Baekhyun staring at him intently. A few lines had been added to the face on the canvas and Jongin didn’t remember them being there before. He opened his eyes slowly, conscious enough to stifle a yawn and let the artist work unhindered by the creases he knew it would produce. As Baekhyun studied his face in the dim light of the lamp, eyes squinted in attention to detail, Jongin grew more boldly awake and he stared back.

How long had he known Baekhyun for? He tried to recall the first time they’d met. Was it over drinks in the pub? Probably so, and yet he couldn’t remember which of their mutual acquaintances had introduced them. All he knew is that both seemed to click, and despite the difference in professions they both worked for the same goal. To hell with the authority figures and their models of obedience and virtue. Oh the times they’d drunk to the power of free expression, believing without a doubt that even a state such as theirs couldn’t stamp out the voice of an artist. Not completely. Baekhyun had his brushes and his colors, and a nominal position in the artists guild (unpaid of course), but at least he had a venue for his works. Jongin envied him that, but with Baekhyun’s persuasion he’d finally come to terms with how important his political writings were to the organization, and especially when distributed on the sly to the people. And maybe it was all bull, but he trusted Baekhyun’s opinion and with that kind of respect he could live with himself alright. Brothers in arms, not in a physical war, but it was still a battle of sorts, if not a full out war against conventions. He wanted to fight beside Baekhyun forever, and knew the other must feel the same. He could read it in the intensity the painter poured into his subjects.

How long had Jongin been staring at Baekhyun? It took a few moments for the other to realize that the tides had turned and he was now the model. Their eyes met with a jolt of electricity and Baekhyun almost dropped the brush. Both shaken, Jongin recovered faster.

“Project too intense for you or something?”

Baekhyun frowned and shook his head. He recovered his grip on the brush, but the slight tremble of his fingers didn’t go unnoticed by Jongin.

“No. I thought you’d passed out though. Should we quit for tonight? I need to rest my eyes.”  Jongin nodded, outwardly cool. He didn’t have time to respond verbally before Baekhyun continued. “Are you staying here again or didn’t you find a girl for the night?”

Was that accusation Jongin detected in his friend’s words? The painter had often chided him on his lifestyle, but something about this time sounded different.  He didn’t know what to make of it, so he responded in his usual manner.

“Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a girl who’d go for a , so I guess it’s just you and me tonight.”

Baekhyun tutted reproachfully and began to put his tools away. Jongin stood up and sauntered heavily over to the bed in the corner. He kicked off his boots, shed his outer jacket, and still fully dressed threw himself in the bed.

“So where exactly am I sleeping tonight?” Baekhyun asked from across the room.

“Where else but with me?” Jongin teased.

“You do realize that’s my bed, right?”

“Okay, so I’m sleeping with you. Come on, don’t be a prude. There’s plenty of room.”

It made him laugh to think of Baekhyun as a prude. He wasn’t even sure that was a good enough word to describe him. The man wasn't oblivious to the more graphic side of life when he was painting, and goodness knows he preaches a good yarn about overthrowing the conventions. Yet when it came to his personal life, the painter was much more private about things. Or maybe Jongin was always too drunk to notice what Baekhyun got up to after he himself slopped home in the arms of a lovely female.  Sometimes he passed out completely but woke up cozily back in his own room. He supposed he should thank Baekhyun for all those times, since he seemed the likely culprit, but he never really got around to it. He knew Jongin was grateful already, didn’t he? Some things just didn’t need to be expressed between friends; they were evident enough.

Baekhyun cut the light and a moment later Jongin felt the dip in the bed as the smaller man crawled in. They played a small match of tug-of-war with the blankets before Jongin relented and gave the owner the bulk of the wool comforter. Back to back they lay, sharing a bit of mutual body warmth, the blankets tucked in around the outer edges of the bed. It was cozy, Jongin thought, still cold. He pressed closer in search of more warmth, but to his surprise Baekhyun pulled away a little far. Jongin barely had time to register the movement before sleep overtook them both. 

---

Jongin found Jongdae in his office the next day after work, silent and sullen sitting behind his desk. He’d come to fetch the pamphlets the newspaper man had stashed behind a hidden cupboard. Jongdae jingled his giant nest of key rings to locate the right one, unlocked the cabinet and pulled out the baskets. Jongin was obligingly grateful to the man.

“Well, here you are,” said Jongdae dryly.

“Thanks.”

Jongdae grunted and looked like he had something else to say. Jongin knew that look. He waited for his boss to get his tongue together. For a man who was also good at words, he was surprisingly more spare when speaking them out loud.

“How’s Baekhyun doing these days?”

That was it? That’s all Jongdae had to say? “He’s fine. Why?”

Jongdae cleared his throat, frowning like he still had more to say. “It’s just… well, I heard some inquiries were being made about…”

“…about?”

“It’s probably nothing. Just that I heard some people, government people, were investigating some of Baekhyun’s paintings again.”

Again… Jongin had another sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Images of Baekhyun being hauled away in the back of a white truck; angry policemen looking more like soldiers than policemen; Baekhyun in an absurdly calm mood for the circumstances, assuring Jongin he would be fine. He was fine the next day, but Jongin barely survived the night. He drank his weight in liquor, initiated several brawls, and was an absolute wreck by the time Baekhyun got out. The half a dozen speeches and publications he was going to write for the press never passed the brainstorming phase. The case was just too personal for Jongin to focus on any one train of thought.

“Thanks for the tip,” he replied. The back of his throat felt parched. He needed a drink, though he probably didn’t have time for one.

“Yeah.”

Jongdae’s job was done now. He sat back in his chair, back to Jongin in dismissal. The writer picked up the baskets containing his pamphlets and escorted himself out of the building. 

Half an hour later he reached the square from which they planned their demonstration to begin. It shouldn’t be too big an affair, just a simple protest organized and attended by artists in a range of fields, students from the local universities, and hopefully picking up more of the working class folks on their way home. Jongin found Xiumin at their anticipated meeting sight. The unemployed artist/architect would be in charge of distribution, effectively passing off Jongin’s responsibility and distancing the writer from his potentially arrest-able materials. In the shade of a street vendor’s cart they passed the time of the day to all outward appearances, and in code they confirmed that indeed all their plans were a go. Xiumin had another word of warning though, a piece of gossip he’d picked up near the government office. He practically echoed Jongdae’s warning for Baekhyun, and Jongin knew he wouldn’t find peace until he had the painter within his sights, safe and sound. He moved off from the square earlier than planned, suddenly craving Baekhyun’s presence.  

He’d woken up this morning to an empty bed. Baekhyun was always an early riser, especially on a day like this when many precautions needed to be taken and set well in advance. He hadn’t seen him all day. No doubt Baekhyun was huddled away with other members of the party. They weren’t supposed to meet up until later tonight, after the demonstration. Xiumin was kind enough to lend the members a back entrance to his reasonably spaced home on the banks of the river as a safe house for the night. Jongin thought about how long it might be before they would all make it there. Two hours from now? That was too long for his peace of mind.

He raced along adjacent alleys, hoping to head off wherever Baekhyun was supposed to be in the procession. However he found his way blocked up by the everyday crush of people returning to their homes on foot. It was too slow-moving so he double-backed, chose another path and hurried along his way. His second route too was barred by an even scarier procession of policemen. Currently they only monitored the traffic, but Jongin knew they would turn in a heartbeat if the demonstration became violent. From the square he’d left behind he heard the chants and knew it was beginning. He eyed the policemen warily, but they hadn’t yet been given the signal to move.

Jongin ducked into a pub he knew, pretended to sit for a moment, and then snuck out the back entrance, determined to circumvent the police and reach Baekhyun before anything could happen.   

He had almost reached the spot when he heard another roar from behind him, but this time it wasn’t cheerful.  It was the sounds of people screaming and fleeing, and shortly after that the sound of dynamite. The explosion lit up the early evening skyline with a huge bang, smoke filling its place as soon as the light escaped. Jongin found himself knocked over as the people around him started to panic, and with a sickening gulp he registered the whistles and sirens of the police set into action. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. There shouldn’t have been any explosions, he thought, as a second bomb went off in the distance, followed by a third. Their movement wasn’t supposed to use such violence! Who had caused this eruption?

And where was Baekhyun in the mess of it all?

There was no question of Jongin getting close to the blast scenes. The bombs hadn’t been large, but the crowds rushing away from it allowed no one back.  Jongin had no choice but to continue skirting the once-peaceful procession path through the alleys, praying he could find Baekhyun. Twenty minutes passed without a glimpse of the painter, nor could he find anyone else he knew. It was already becoming dangerous to remain on the streets. His eyes reddened and his nose burned at the despair, but if Baekhyun wasn’t captured somewhere – or worse – he would surely find his way to Xiumin’s place. It was his last source of hope. 

Jongin reached the familiar brown door another half hour later. He banged on it in the rhythm agreed upon and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Xiumin opening it up for him.

“Hurry up, man!” Xiumin cried, slamming the door behind him.

“What’s happened? Where’s Baekhyun?!” Jongin cried.

Xiumin swore, ushering him through a low-ceilinged hallway. “Those blasted anarchists crashed our party!”

“What!?”

“Yes. I happened to see that idiot Chanyeol in the square earlier. I should’ve known he was up to no good.”

“Then he’s responsible?” Jongin tried not to freak out that Xiumin hadn’t answered his question about Baekhyun yet.

“Apparently he was, though he was long gone before the blasts. I barely escaped down the west lane but I saw it as it happened. They left the kid Sehun in charge of at least one of the blasts. He was raving and hollering like a madman and I had the sense to realize what he was about a split second before it happened.”

Jongin noticed for the first time that Xiumin was looking filthy, covered in dirt and grime and who knew what else.

“Any casualties?” His voice shook.

“Maybe some. It’s not like they aim for anyone specifically. They only like making a scene, those asses. Problem is, the police know we were the ones planning this thing. They’ll blame us and be on the war path soon enough.”

Xiumin and Jongin ducked under one last doorway and Jongin was met by the comforting warmth of a kitchen fire and several of the party leaders who had gotten away safely. Suho greeted him formerly, and though he looked worried and frazzled, he probably hadn't even left the room this whole night. Times like this, his presence on the streets alone would’ve been worth an arrest. In any case, Suho rarely ventured out, preferring to stimulate the ‘troops’ from their safe dens.

“Jongin. Glad you made it,” he said.

“Where’s Baekhyun?” was Jongin’s only response.

“Baekhyun? I guess you heard the warnings on the street.” Suho nodded sympathetically.

“Quit playing around, man, and tell me where he is!”

Xiumin reached around Jongin to put an arm across his back, hand resting on his shoulder. “Jongin, chill out. Baekhyun’s here. He’s fine, mostly.”

Jongin spun around, hoping somehow he’d just missed the painter in the dim light of the room, but he didn’t see him.

“Through there.” Suho helped him out, pointing to another door off to the side. 

Jongin marched through it without a second’s hesitation. He found himself in an even more dimly lit pantry room. In center of the room a cot was set up, and Baekhyun lay in it. He was conscious and smiling when Jongin entered. His leg was bandaged up with several dirty rags around the left knee and shin.

“Jongin,” he cooed.

“What happened to you?!”

“Nothing too bad.” He chuckled, and his eyes twinkled despite the situation. “Nearly got trampled by a street cart though.”

Jongin bent to investigate the leg, confirming the wound was a mere flesh wound. “Does it hurt much?” He was beginning to regain his even breath, now that he could tell with his own eyes that Baekhyun was alright, mostly.

Baekhyun gasped when Jongin uncharacteristically leaned forward and enveloped Baekhyun’s upper body in his arms. The motion caused Baekhyun to sit up, and he blushed when he realized Jongin was nuzzling him in the neck. Cautiously, he put his arms around the kneeling man and comfortingly hugged him back.

“Jongin…” he cleared his throat. “Jongin, I’m okay. You can let go now.”

“No.”

Baekhyun laughed again; then pounded on Jongin’s back. “Jongin, let me go. I can’t breathe like this.”

Reluctantly Jongin let him go. They looked at each other, their faces inches apart.  Baekhyun suddenly registered the fear plastered on his friend’s face. Neither spoke for a minute.

“Baekhyun, I was so worried. I’ve been hearing all day that… that you were being investigated again. I thought something might happen to you today, and then with the demonstration going so wrong, I thought…”

Baekhyun smiled at him. “Don’t worry. I heard that too, but there’s nothing to tie me to anything bad. They’ve already tried and failed. So, even if today was a failure, we’re fine.”

Jongin never could figure out how Baekhyun managed to remain so calm all the time. It should have put himself at ease, but all it did was worry him more. What if Baekhyun merely glossed over the truth? What if he wasn’t as safe as he believed?

“Are… are you sure?” he said.

“Yes.” Baekhyun nodded matter-of-factly. “There is something I would like your help with though.”

“Anything. What?”

“I want to go home.”

Jongin choked. “What now? It’s not safe right now. Baekhyun let’s wait a few hours at least, please? Besides, you probably shouldn’t walk right now with that leg.”

“That’s why I need your help though.”

Jongin shook his head, refusing to give in. “No.”

“Jongin, please. If not now, then in a few hours? I want to go home tonight.”

He sighed, feeling his own willpower give in under Baekhyun’s persistence. “Okay… in a few hours. When it’s completely dark out. Will that make you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

---

The walk home was long and exhausting. Baekhyun was obviously spent, but with Jongin acting as his support and second leg most of the way he was sweating and completely worn out by the time they reached the landing outside Baekhyun’s room.

The sight he was met with confused him immensely. A youngish man sat slumped over in front of the door, dozing until the two men woke him up. Eyes looked up as the boy snapped awake, and Jongin saw the frightened eyes of a stranger trained upon him and Baekhyun.

“You’re home!” he cried out, standing up. “I… I heard about the demonstration! I thought maybe you would be arrested!” The boy ignored Jongin, so intent was he in his relief to see Baekhyun.

The painter kindly smiled back, and pulled his arm away from Jongin’s shoulder. He balanced on his own two feet gingerly for a moment, while Jongin eyed him worryingly.

“I think I’m good,” Baekhyun said to Jongin. He took a couple of steps towards the door and pulled out his key. The boy stepped aside. He fidgeted for a moment while Baekhyun unlocked the door.

“Your leg… what happened?”

“Just a scratch. What are you doing here?” His voice hinted of dismissal, but still kindly.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine as you can see. It’s dangerous out though, Kyungsoo. Go home, okay?”

Kyungsoo still fidgeted, eyes lowered. “O- okay.” Jongin met his eyes once as the boy scurried away. Mixed with the fear there, he thought he detected something else in Kyungsoo’s glance. Jealousy, perhaps. As if the emotion itself could trigger something, Jongin felt it in return. Who was this kid to wait on Baekhyun’s doorstep, and why hadn’t he ever seen him before?

He didn’t trust himself to ask Baekhyun as the two entered the room.  

“So what’s so important that you had to come home tonight?” Jongin asked, expecting to see Baekhyun flop into his own bed. The man, however, hobbled over to the easel he’d been working on last night, and pulled the cover off just like the night before. “You came home just to paint?” Jongin was incredulous.

“Why not? After today I need this.”

“What you need is to lay down and rest.”

“I’ll rest another day,” Baekhyun sighed. “I can’t though when my masterpiece is still unfinished.”

Jongin noted the landscape, noted the two figures; the one who looked like Baekhyun and the other one that looked eerily like him. “This is your masterpiece? Two Brothers? You know, if you’re going to consider this painting your legacy, then… that’s my face there too. I’ll consider it one half my legacy too.”

Baekhyun grinned at that. “Fair enough. I’ll need your help to finish it though. Can you help me gather my stuff?” He nearly fainted into the chair beside the table, and Jongin melted at the man’s helplessness after such a day.

They worked together late into the night. Jongin helped him gather colors and brushes, supported his weight for the times Baekhyun was too tired to stand, and sat at his side while Baekhyun completed the painting. Jongin’s face, crudely drawn yesterday, came to life before the subject’s very eyes, until Jongin couldn’t even imagine the canvas without the pair that was him and Baekhyun in it. Yesterday the painting featured only the artist and a blank face. Today, it was as if they had always been together.

“It’s beautiful,” Jongin said. He regretted the word choice as soon as it came out of his ears. Jongin was always a verbose man, and the best he could say right now was just that it was ‘beautiful’? What must Baekhyun think?

The painter, however, agreed, pleased with his friend’s pronouncement. “Thank you.”

“It’s complete then? You haven’t signed it.”

“I think I’ll leave it that way too.”

“Huh?”

“Yes… This painting I’ll leave unsigned. Only you and I will know it.”

 Something caught in the back of Jongin’s throat. “Why, Baekhyun?”

Baekhyun cleared his own throat. “Why? Because so much of my work is politically motivated, or it’s infused with such great, supposed meaning that it’s impossible to view it without looking for some kind of construct. Everything I paint is for some purpose. Sometimes, I get so involved with the goal that I forget why I wanted to paint in the first place.” He paused and looked at Jongin for a moment. “This painting at least… this one is for me. And you too, I guess.” He laughed lightly, and it was such a pleasant sound that Jongin wanted to bottle it and have it always.

“I’ll claim it then. What if I put my name on it?”

Baekhyun continued to laugh. “Then you’d be a thief!”

Jongin smiled, pleased with himself. Pleased that he had at least a nominal ownership in Baekhyun’s masterpiece. “Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome!” replied Baekhyun giddily.

Would he be able to say it? Could he even find the words to express how much it meant to him? That for posterity’s sake and represented here that he would always be beside Baekhyun? Surely Baekhyun knew it, right? That Jongin couldn’t imagine his life without him, couldn’t imagine a life apart? Why then did the completion of this picture feel like an end of sorts? Why the rush to finish it? Why did Baekhyun insist on finishing it tonight?

“You were in such a hurry to complete this,” he finally said aloud. “Are you that eager to be done with your model?”

Baekhyun’s laughter died away, but the smile remained. “Of course not. I was just impatient for you to see it. I wanted your opinion of it sooner.”

Jongin nodded relieved. “Ahh, that’s good. You better not be done with me. I don’t ever want you to be done with me.”

From his seat, Baekhyun reached up a hand high above himself and clasped Jongin’s shoulder, still standing. “Thank you for that,” he said, and it sounded sadder than anything Baekhyun had uttered all day. “I won’t ever be done, as long as you’re around for me.”

Jongin had the urge to take him in his arms, but his muscles felt like they’d suddenly forgotten how to move. He only stood there, looking down on Baekhyun, frozen against his will. The painter stood up finally, and laid his tools down on the table behind him. At his first limping step towards the bed, Jongin remembered how to move and he helped him over. That night it was extra cold, and though they still only lay side by side, Baekhyun didn’t try to roll away from him this time in the night.

---

It happened at dawn two days later. Since the failed demonstration and explosions in the square, the state had yet to make a move against the party leaders, though rumor had it Sehun had been caught late the same night. Jongdae had been obliged to run a short article in the paper announcing the arrest of the young anarchist. The news didn’t make anyone relax, though. These things had a way of accumulating more lives as the time went on. It was with great caution that Baekhyun, Jongin, and Xiumin made plans to meet up with a foreign representative of their international organization. Yixing sailed into the city under disguise in the predawn hours to meet the other gentlemen at the docks. He was to later meet up with Suho but for now the deputies were content to exchange the news.

Jongin and Xiumin met up first in a dark corner of a pub a few blocks off the dock.  Baekhyun came in with Yixing a few minutes later and the two had barely walked half of the distance to the back when the front door was thrown open behind them by the butts of policemen’s rifles. A few of the local patrons shrieked and moved out of the way. The commotion did nothing to hide the two fellow artists standing in the way. They spotted and seized Yixing immediately, giving no verbal reason for the arrest other than to throw out a string of racist slurs towards the foreigner. At his side Baekhyun had fallen back behind the line of policemen, and Jongin prayed that they wouldn’t notice him. His luck wasn’t to hold, however, because Baekhyun himself came to Yixing’s defense.

“What is the meaning of this?!”   

-  No, Baekhyun, don’t say anything. Don’t get yourself noticed! -

“Out of the way! This is state business!” shouted one of the uniformed men.

“No! You must give a reason for why you’re taking this man!”

- No, don’t get yourself involved, please. -

“Suspected terrorist. Now move aside!”

As the men dragged Yixing out, another of the policemen gave Baekhyun a closer look. He walked to his superior and whispered something in the officer’s ear. From his seat in the dark, Jongin rose to save Baekhyun, but was stopped by Xiumin holding onto his waist from behind. The officer glanced at Baekhyun again too and issued an order to seize the artist.

“NO!” shrieked Jongin, but his pleas went unheard and before his eyes Baekhyun was seized and dragged out following Yixing. Xiumin let him go only when the trucks had disappeared. Jongin panicked. He could feel his heartbeat escalating. “Why did you stop me!” he yelled.

“It wouldn't do you any good to get involved right now!” Xiumin explained, also upset. He forced himself to breathe. “Come on. They're probably headed to the sentencing house. We can probably summon them some help. I'll send a runner to Jongdae to see if he has any contacts, and swing by Baekhyun's patrons' house.”

“I'm going to the sentencing house.” He dared Xiumin to suggest anything different. 

Xiumin seemed to agree. “Yes, okay do that. Just don't do anything stupid. At least wait for me to get help there first, okay??” 

“I'll try,” Jongin said stubbornly.

“You better do better than just try. A false move from you and Baekhyun and Yixing's lives could be in danger. So keep it together.” He left by a back entrance, and Jongin gave him a minute head start before he also left the same way.

Baekhyun was too calm again, as normal, completely careless of his own life. It was the best and worst thing Jongin found about the man. In any other moment he'd be proud of his friend, but not after the last few days. Not after all the warnings, and the obvious recognition of that officer's face about which famous painter they'd accidentally cornered. They must have been following Yixing since he docked, if not before then. That meant none of their precautions had done any good whatsoever. Yixing the pacifist arrested as a suspected terrorist? There were other players at work here. Perhaps they had a traitor in their midst, or else the government's spies were just that good. Either way, this didn't bode well. 

It bothered Jongin that the people he passed on the street were busy going about their daily lives, unconcerned that the state had just arrested Jongin's best friend, the person he cared most about in this world. How could they be so happy in times like these? Didn't they realize what kind of society they were living in? What kind of government had its stamp all over them? He could punch someone for no reason. He would have too, but Xiumin's words came back to haunt him. He had to try to keep it cool. He had to do more than try. Baekhyun would count on him. Hadn't he said as much last night?

Why did he feel Baekhyun had anticipated this? 

Jongin vomited his breakfast out all over the side of the alley, an unsuspecting woman jumping out of his path. He felt marginally better, head clearer. The sentencing house was only another ten blocks away. Jongin crept upon it as stealthily as he could without drawing attention to his strange patterns of movement. The 'house' was actually an outdoor courtyard behind the office of the chief of police. It was a heinous place, drawing crowds by the promise of spectacle and corruption, and it was open nearly every afternoon to dispense 'justice' as it saw fit. It catered to the supposed moral standards of the country's upper crust, but it attracted the unemployed and scum of the earth peasants, too happy to laugh at the misfortunes of anyone other than themselves. To his disgust, today's audience was already packed. Jongin had no problem sneaking into the full crowd. He waited in time until the guards dragged out the first suspect. Yixing was placed in the barred box on the podium, a placard around his neck with the words 'Anarchist'. The foreigner held his dignity, even in the face of the obscenity-throwing mob. 

An officer appeared next to the box and read out a list of accusations. 

“Zhang Yixing. Suspected terrorist with affiliation to the foreign born anarchy movement. Responsible for the blasts two nights ago, we believe he escaped the city and returned this morning to continue with his foul deeds.”

The crowd roared in anger.

“Zhang Yixing, do you have anything to say in your defense?”

The poor man looked up and with calm voice began to deny everything. “I'm just a merchant. I had nothing to do with-” The sentencer cut him off. 

“Enough with your lies, Zhang. You were found entering the country illegally with no merchant badge to speak of. On top of that, you were seen in the company of a fellow anarchist also on trial for terrorism against the state. You may hold your words. Save them for the examiner's office. Guards remove this heathen from my sight and bring out the next suspect.”

Jongin was glad his stomach was already hollow. If Yixing hadn't even been given a few seconds to speak for himself, Jongin didn't hold out much hope for Baekhyun getting away without outside interference. Those words about Yixing's company were even worse. Why did they suspect Baekhyun already as a terrorist? The officers earlier hadn't even bothered with Baekhyun until the painter drew their attention. He held his breath as the guards brought out another suspect, and breathed a sigh of relief when it wasn't Baekhyun. The new victim was a middle aged man whose clothes marked him as a member of a fringe religion. He was suspected for being a swindler, in particular for a large theft of money belonging to a wealthy widow. He was quickly indicted, though the offered proof seemed weak. Jongin thought the man was found guilty more because of his religion than for his supposed deeds. The third suspect was a young woman on trial for infidelity. She was allowed no say in her defense and quickly sent to the same holding area as the other two before her.

Xiumin appeared at Jongin's side suddenly. He looked haggard and exhausted. 

“Where's our defense?” Jongin quickly asked. Xiumin paled and shook his head. “Please tell me you have a plan for this! Didn't you find Jongdae? Baekhyun's patrons? They're well off. They should be able to do something about this!”

Again Xiumin shook his head. “Jongdae says he can't help. He says he exhausted all links when he gave you the warning several days ago.”

Jongin spit at the ground.  ”He's got more contacts. He's just saving their influence for the day he needs it, not for when others need it.” 

“Give him a break, Jongin. We're not all limitless with what we can do.”

“What about the patrons? Are they here? Didn't they send around something to help? A contact, a bribe, anything??”

Xiumin stilled. “They're here alright.”

“They're here? Why didn't you say that upfront? Where are they?” Jongin scanned the crowd but found no hint of the wealthy couple he'd met once or twice in their posh home. They lived a lavish life and threw great parties yearly, even opening up the ranks for the odd common fellow like Jongin. He had a fond appreciation for the progressive couple, useless though they otherwise were. “You said they're here? I don't see them.”

The gates opened up again and the fourth suspect was brought out, two at once this time, and with a sickening feeling Jongin should have been used to by now, he recognized the couple. Baekhyun's patrons were forcefully dragged to the box, kicking up a great scene and protesting like mad.

The woman, a thin set woman of early middle age howled like a banshee while her husband shouted out in great indignation. “This is uncalled for! How dare you arrest us and haul us into this madhouse. We are friends of the magistrate, I'll have you know!”

The officer in charge looked merely bored. “The magistrate has given you up. You may answer now to your crimes and associations. Are you or are you not the patrons of Byun Baekhyun the painter?” 

The woman shut up suddenly and the man gaped widely. Jongin didn't see how any good would come out of this interrogation now, as the couple was his last bid at freeing Baekhyun from this hell hole and possible impending prison. 

“W- We are,” said the man solemnly. “And, I don't see what that's to do with anything here-”

“Then you should be aware of his associations with the anarchist movement?” the officer droned on.

Both of the suspects in the box sputtered. The gate behind them opened once more and Jongin's heart fell when he recognized Baekhyun's limp figure being dragged out to join his patrons. 

“He- he's not an anarchist!” claimed the man passionately. “I can vouch for that on my life! He's a mere artist!” The wife, however, was starting to think better of this direction of plea bargaining. She elbowed her husband pointedly, though she kept her tongue for the time being. 

“A mere artist?” echoed the officer with a chuckle. “You may just have to put your life on the line for that.” The couple paled. 

“What- what do you mean, sir?” He glanced back fearfully as Baekhyun's jailers approached with him between their grips. 

“I mean, sir, that Mr. Byun here has ties to anarchists and therefore you do too. I'll also have it said that the state's well aware of your family's own illicit affairs in the form of... well, let's read it here... of lascivious arrangements involving you and the missus, and, well this is interesting... the missus' sister as well. Fun times no doubt, however, when we add that with your patronage of a homoual artist, I do believe, my dear sir, that that is enough for an arrest on the grounds of immorality. Please know that any facts we may receive from you about the painter known as Byun Baekhyun will work in your favor, perhaps.”

At what point Jongin felt the ground beneath him sinking, he couldn't tell. At the officer's accusations he knew Baekhyun was doomed from the start. Maybe he knew that even before the couple had come out. Hadn't he felt something of this a few days back? The looming doom that he might soon be losing his best friend and companion? 

If only that was all he needed to focus on. His heart stopped dead, however, at the words “homoual artist.” Baekhyun was... this? All this time and he hadn't known it? It must be lies made up from the state's office, anything to link his crimes to something more insidious, something more tale-worthy, something that was guaranteed to work up a crowd. Anyone might be accused of anarchy and exploding bombs in the square. Murderers were a dime a dozen in a city like this, but a homoual... that was more than enough to fire up the mob. It couldn't be true.

He met Baekhyun's eyes just as the officer turned his address on the painter.

“Mr. Byun what have you to say in your defense? You stand accused of anarchy, of aiding the plot two days ago in the square, and of homouality. How do you plea?”

Baekhyun's eyes lighted upon Jongin's own and stayed there like an invisible force. He was calm, damn the man. Why couldn't Baekhyun ever get fired up about his own life? Jongin cried to himself, willing that Baekhyun see that plea through their linked eyes. 

Without breaking the connection, Baekhyun replied in even tones. “I am not an anarchist.”

“Mr. Byun your artwork has been evaluated and investigated many a time. Your recent cityscape entitled Explosion is so graphic in nature, it might be seen as a prophetic work of the fiery demonstration two nights ago.”

Baekhyun finally broke the connection with Jongin's eyes. “That painting was a memorial to the last world war. It has nothing to do with the events of a few nights ago. I repeat, I am no anarchist, nor do I have any ties with that movement. Nor does the foreigner brought in before me, Zhang Yixing.”

“You have said nothing to the claim of homouality, Mr. Byun.” The officer looked happy almost, and the crowd loved it, jeering in outrage. Baekhyun's eyes scanned the crowd once more and locked eyes on Jongin. Unbidden to him came the image of the young man on Baekhyun's doorstep. Kyungsoo was his name, wasn't it? 

While Baekhyun remained silent, the wife of his former patron officially lost it. She began wailing accusations against the artist including filthy lies of seeing Baekhyun meeting with known anarchists, overheard conversations between him and assumed terrorists, and a particularly detailed account of a conversation Baekhyun was to have had the night before the demonstration itself. Of these Jongin was certain none were true. Hadn't he spent all night with the artist to prove these untrue? He would have spoken up, but Baekhyun still claimed his eyes. It was subtle, but Baekhyun shook his head in a slow request that told Jongin, 'No. Do not come to my defense, I beg of you. Please.' By his sad look, Baekhyun couldn't have spoken any plainer had he words to explain, and Jongin's heart pounded in agony. By his side, Xiumin clenched his arm, silently agreeing with Baekhyun's plea. 

The officer in charge was busily writing down the woman's additional remarks, while her husband looked downcast, silent for good. 

“Mr. Byun, you are charged with associations to anarchists and to undoubtedly helping plan the attacks in the square.”

“He is also a homoual! I've heard him state that proudly!” cried the woman again, and Baekhyun winced. 

“Mr. Byun, is this true? Please answer so we may call this a day and return to our homes.”

It was more important than ever that Baekhyun return Jongin's glance. He did, though his eyes this time seemed more glazed than ever.

“Yes I am. I have loved a man. I see nothing wrong with that.”

Jongin's heart dropped to the ground. His body almost did too, and would have if Xiumin had not clutched him and held him up. 

“Thank you Mr. Byun. Guards, please remove the suspects from the box.” The patron couple he released on a strict warning. Baekhyun, however, went the same way as Yixing, and the swindler, and the adulteress. Jongin rushed through the crowd, Xiumin on his heels, to find the point closest to where Baekhyun would cross. He made it there seconds before the painter passed by and froze, eyes swimming with tears and he looked one last time upon the man he loved the most. The man to whom he had never said such words. He hoped he conveyed it to Baekhyun now though when he passed by, jostled heavily between the guards, face dry and calm as usual and it pained Jongin more than it ever had before. 

Baekhyun smiled as he passed. A white truck pulled out outside the courtyard and Baekhyun and the other three were quickly ushered into it. Jongin remembered the last time this had happened, for that stupid lewd portrait over which Baekhyun had spent a night in jail. The sentencing had gone much the same way, though without half the spectacle of today's trials. Jongin had stood in the shadows then as he did today, and had watched Baekhyun's procession to the awaiting truck, and the truck's subsequent start as it headed west down the avenue towards the examiner's office and holding quarters. Most of the trucks like this headed west. But today's vehicle was different. Jongin heard the engine start, and the truck roared to life. It started out down the road and at the stop, it turned east. There was nothing good about police vehicles that turned east. Jongin finally broke free of Xiumin's grip, and he raced after the moving truck, suddenly ten times more afraid than he'd been at any point in the last few days. His legs couldn't keep up, and the truck drove on. Through the back windows he swore he could see Baekhyun's face for the last time, but it might have been an illusion. It was one he would keep with him forever though. 

Only the railroad tracks lay to the east. And beyond the railroads, few prisoners were ever seen again.

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Epilogue, 1 year later

The exhibit was a farce. Of that Jongin could be sure of the moment he stepped into the dingy gallery displaying the works of those 'degenerate' artists and their despicable paintings, at least those of which the state disapproved. So many great men with immense talents and half of them were either barred from their art or driven into exile. At least one he knew personally had been long imprisoned and so far he'd been unable to locate him. Baekhyun, the man he wanted to see most in the world. The man to whom he had the most to apologize for. The most to say. 

Most of the artist's paintings had been confiscated and destroyed. Other artists' reputations were just ruined by their inability to paint anymore, but Baekhyun himself was too much a rebel figure for any of his art to be seen. It should have amused Jongin that only one painting remained in circulation. Two Brothers, the unsigned masterpiece that had gone through multiple examinations. It was the only one left. Funny how Baekhyun's only professed masterpiece had indeed become the only relic of his left remaining, and no one but Jongin knew it. The government investigators had been baffled by the painting that according to sources had been collected with others from the artist Byun Baekhyun, but the lack of a signature couldn't prove it was his. The style was similar. That was why it was exhibited here, in this filthy place, as if to remind the masses, 'These here were painted by the scum of the earth. See the mockery they make of our values, see how they devalue our womenfolk, see the influence of the ingrate, the heathen, the profane.' After visiting here, guests were encouraged to visit the other gallery across the way, where the 'good' art hung. Visitors could point and make comparisons, and feel good about themselves.

Jongin would let them. He no longer cared about the people, no longer cared about their tendency to flock like sheep to the state's authority. He had another goal in life now, and that one was to find Baekhyun. He would leave this place soon. He'd received some tips through Jongdae about a labor camp on the eastern border. Maybe it would be fruitful.

Jongin lunged passed a vulgar couple that to his eyes resembled Baekhyun's old patrons. It wasn't them. If it had been, he might have cared enough to throw a punch. His attention, however, caught on a young man standing away by himself in the corner. From where he stood, the man had a perfect glimpse of the Two Brothers painting. Did he recognize it? He seemed most intrigued by the lost painting hanging sideways from its perch. He turned away and there were tears in his eyes, and that's when Jongin recognized him. 

“Kyungsoo?” He approached the young man hesitatingly.

The man jumped at the sound of his name being called and turned to face Jongin, eyes wide. It was him. The last time Jongin had seen the boy was at Baekhyun's inquest a year ago. When Jongin had returned limply to Xiumin's side, wailing about trucks and trains and easterly routes, and Xiumin had clutched onto him fiercely in a pained hug, he had seen over Xiumin's shoulder the crouched figure of Kyungsoo crying streams of tears watching as Baekhyun was driven away.

Kyungsoo didn't look much different now. His eyes were still splotchy red, and Jongin could guess why. If his life had been anything like Jongin's had been over the past year, then that was at least two things they shared in life. In their joint misery, Jongin felt compassion for the younger man. He wondered where he'd been all this time. Was he out there looking for Baekhyun as well?

“You miss him too?” he asked, and Kyungsoo nodded. Jongin placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then help me. I think I know where he is. I have a name and place to go to and for this operation, two will be better than one. Help me, and we'll find him one day. I promise.” Kyungsoo wiped a tear as it began to fall, and nodded again. Together, they exited the building. 

Omg what have I written? If you think you’re suffering right now, just remember that the final scene with the accusations against Baekhyun, his inability to deny his homouality in front of Jongin, and the manner of his arrest and Jongin’s fright, and the truck turning ominously to the east – that is the part of the dream I woke up to one morning just a few days ago, so imagine the sweat and the panic I woke up to! It’s purely the need to share my angst-laden dream with the rest of the Kaibaek world that made me create the rest of this story for you here. I had to backtrack in my mind what would have happened and how we could have gotten to such a , and through that half-imagined half-waking state, I conceived of this fic.

I am truly, truly sorry for putting us all through this! I dislike angst myself. Let me rephrase that, I hate angst! After today I’m going back to working on my totally angst-free Between Spotlights, and much happier will we all be, I'm sure.

FYI, before anyone asks – I’m not completely against writing a sequel for this someday (I may even have some thoughts already on how it would go). But I just want to emphasize the someday part, because at this time I’m not ready to put myself through anything like this again until I’ve had some time to console myself. I made myself cry when I put that horrible, final scene into words… Life is hard haha. 

Rosie

Painting notes:

1) Wintermondnacht, by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner - this fic's background picture, and the setting on which Baekhyun's fictional Two Brothers characters are painted.

2) Explosion, by George Grosz - mentioned during Baekhyun's inquest as the supposed proof of his anarchist affiliations

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