TWO MONTHS AGO

Jongin is not good at describing, albeit being deemed a New York Times best selling author. He knows he is not as talented as many other who have reached that position. So he goes out and does things like this. With fear; maybe some regret and a lot of curiosity.

Nobody is behind the metallic doors as he walks in. It helps calm down his anxiety, a lot. It gives him two more minutes to prepare. (Not like he will ever be prepared for what he personally would label as desperation.) he inhales one last time and he finds himself at the end of the beginning.

It smells like a fancy dessert. Vanilla and cinnamon mixed with leather. The smell could pass off as some fancy dessert, only made for picky and rich customers. The place is dimly and warmly lit. There's a bar that goes along the whole front wall, the first thing you notice are the stools. All taken by people who talk in hushed tones, too close to each other. He also has no other choice but to notice the people who, as if arranged for military service, stand close, two or three steps away, all looking down.

He looks down, to see if the floor that holds him has anything intere-

"Are you someone's?" The voice isn't too deep. It's rich. But manly nonetheless.

He looks up. A man behind sunglasses is looking at him. In  a safe distance where the man doesn't have to look up at him. One or two centimeters shorter, a man stands. And as the man passes his hands through his dark red hair, he realizes that he's being acknowledged.

He blinks a couple of times. To dumbfounded by his nerves and by the man's aura. Dressed in a perfect tuxedo. Stands a man who has him stuck to his place.

He shakes his head. Trusting it more than anything that could come out of his mouth.

"Do you know where you are?" This time the question is implied with a smile. A smile where he is not making fun of what seemed to be a new kid trying to make friends. But at a kid who might have come to the right place,a place where he can be the judge himself, about whether or not, he's in the right place.

"Nom de plume" he confidently pronounces the words. Fluent French coming out of his mouth. And he suddenly remembers reading it in one of the stories he reads where there's too much gay .

"Correct" the unnamed man says as if he was addressing his pupil. In a way that might have pissed him off, if it had come from someone else. Now he simply ignores it, trying to look past the guy -I'm so proud I can afford Gucci shades that I'm wearing them inside- but nothing much has changed.

Please Subscribe to read the full chapter