Long, graceful strides. Baekhyun couldn’t help but appreciate how simple Jongin made it look, how beautifully he could traverse a room, wineglass in hand as he laughed and smiled and made the ever important first impression on anyone that so much as glanced his way.

Baekhyun held back, finding the corner of the art gallery far more comfortable than the swirling, gossiping, loud center of madness. The debut of an exhibition was always like this – equal parts chaos, social hierarchies, and newfound glories. He used to dislike it back in the day, now he put up with it – as long as he had a corner to dwell in.

“He caught the Panoply’s eye,” Chanyeol sighed, leaning towards Baekhyun ever so. “He won’t be free of them for a while.”

“I expected as much.” Baekhyun sipped his wine, watching. The panoply was a collection of aged art critics, up and coming artists, and just pushing-thirty-something see and be seen socialites. Once they had a person in their sights they wouldn’t let them go, not until they were driven away by the next day’s social obligations or the threat of bodily harm. Either or.

“He isn’t afraid,” Chanyeol remarked. “I had thought maybe he would be nervous.”

Baekhyun tilted his head, watching. “I didn’t think he would be afraid, he has no reason to be.”

“True.” Chanyeol looped an arm around Baekhyun’s shoulder, a gesture born of long time familiarity. “Don’t let him ever feel afraid.”

“I won’t.” Baekhyun said it as much to himself as to Chanyeol. He wouldn’t – not this time.





Jongin painted the same way he spoke, a fluttering, all over the place stream of “how are you” and “did I ever tell you about the time that the basement flooded in our apartment in Queens” followed by “we should watch this movie, it reminded me of a dog I once had”. None of it made sense in the beginning. Only when it was all said and done did it show any orderly, progressive sort of method that left everyone around him feeling awed, feeling like they were the ones who were left out on his genius train of thought.

Baekhyun had been one of those people, always a step behind, always waiting to catch up and amazed if he guessed half of what Jongin was thinking. “I can’t understand you.”

“I don’t want you to.” Jongin had laughed, pulling Baekhyun onto the mattress that sat smack dab in the middle of his studio apartment slash workspace. “I just want you to love me.”

Baekhyun thought he could do that. He could always do that. Even if sometimes he stared at hands moving over the canvas, paint drips haphazardly collecting on the beat up hard wood floors, and thought of someone else. Someone long ago.







“You won’t succeed if you don’t think outside the box.” Sehun was like that, always pushing, always looking for that part of a person that needed fixing. “Baekhyun, you should consider what you don’t know, not what you do.”

Baekhyun would laugh, cracking jokes as the younger man yelled at him to sit still, promising him an amazing end result if only he would listen – and realize he didn’t know where things were going or how the arrangement worked at even the most basic level.

“How does a muse even work? I mean, what do they do?” Baekhyun was the one to second guess the idea, misunderstanding everything about the question posed to him by a young, struggling artist.

“They inspire, and most importantly they behave.” Sehun flicked paint at him, laughing as Baekhyun cringed and tried to avoid being covered in the grey that Sehun was using to paint the background.

A month later Baekhyun glimpsed the portrait, unable to speak when he realized how stupid he was, how unworthy he was, and how amazing Sehun was.

“You painted that…with me modeling?” Baekhyun couldn’t fathom how it had happened.

“Hm.” Sehun beamed at the painting, moving quietly behind Baekhyun. He slipped his arms around the older man’s waist. “You are my muse, didn’t I already say that?”

Baekhyun nodded dumbly, unable to comprehend how any of it had come to be.









“How much have you sold?” Baekhyun asked the question from his position of comfort, buried in the oversized down comforter Jongin’s worried mother had dropped off the day before.

“Hm. Not sure.” Jongin answered after a long, heavy silence. He was busy, his attention focused on the canvas before him.

Baekhyun rolled over, pulling the soft and fluffy blanket over his head. It was a luxurious feeling, being wrapped in the plush comforter. He didn’t want to get up. He probably wouldn’t have to; it wasn’t like Jongin ever pushed him towards anything one way or another.

The shrill sound of his ringtone was what wrenched him from his cocoon, an annoying rotary telephone noise that he set on purpose – otherwise he never heard the damn thing when it rang. Glancing at the screen he groaned. He didn’t really want to talk to Luhan right now – or ever.

“Hey,” Baekhyun answered with the most flippant tone, unable to hide his annoyance.

“Baekhyun?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you coming tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.”

Silence. The sound of Jongin uncapping another bottle of paint. The distant noise of sirens, the din of the city.

“Why?”

“I – “Baekhyun in a deep breath. “Maybe it is for the best.”

It wasn’t a surprise that the call was disconnected. Baekhyun held the phone up, staring at the screen, noting that the conversation had lasted less than a minute.

“Who was it?” Jongin asked, his hands moving quickly over the canvas.

“No one important,” Baekhyun lied, pulling the blanket over his head, tossing his phone on the floor.









When Jongin left for Italy Baekhyun saw him off at the airport, playing the part of a needy boyfriend as best as he could. He dropped “promise to call me” along with “I will miss you so, so much” at least half a dozen – if not more -times in the twenty four hours before Jongin caught his flight.

A heady, deep kiss was their parting moment, Baekhyun waving awkwardly as Jongin glanced back from the security line and offered up his own silly wave. When Baekhyun caught a taxi back to midtown he found himself staring at his phone, bringing up images hadn’t dared view in years, images that were painted by a man he used to love. Maybe he wanted to see them. Maybe he needed to see them. Maybe he wanted to remember now that he was alone again.









The text message was simple, friendly even. “Come out, Luhan is here”. Baekhyun ignored the text, busying himself with straightening up the apartment he rarely stayed at since he had all but moved in with Jongin. Cleaning out the refrigerator was a pain. He had completely ignored everything in the place since he started sleeping with Jongin.

When a knock sounded on his door, Baekhyun knew. He knew and he should have known. Of course they would show up. He turned the deadbolt, waiting. Chanyeol pushed the door open, Luhan stumbling after him. They were drunk.

“Make yourselves at home,” Baekhyun deadpanned, returning to his kitchen, returning to his cleaning project. It wasn’t exactly ideal – given the situation – that his apartment was essentially one room, a studio carved out of an old warehouse. He couldn’t escape his guests by moving into the kitchen area, not really.

“Why did you ditch us?” Luhan was slurring his words. Baekhyun cringed.

“I was busy,” Baekhyun lied, tossing out another expired carton of sour cream.

“Do you have anything to eat?” Chanyeol staggered into the kitchen, seemingly oblivious to the tension seething between Baekhyun and Luhan. Chanyeol was always like that, drunk or sober. Baekhyun appreciated it, appreciated how his best friend was immune to any potential drama swirling around him.

“Cereal, but I don’t have milk.” Baekhyun pointed towards the row of cereal boxes on the counter, all of them still good. Chanyeol didn’t protest, snagging the nearest box, and he retreated to the couch to munch on the dry snack.

“You realize he would have been twenty five today?”

Baekhyun tensed, pushing the six pack of soda bottles towards the back of the fridge.

“You realize he would have been…”

“I know.” Baekhyun cut off Luhan mid-sentence. “I know.”

“But do you care?”

Baekhyun couldn’t answer that question, not really. He didn’t know the answer, honestly he hadn’t been able to figure it out. Maybe, probably, perhaps – useless words given his reality.







Jongin returned with cheesy souvenirs- a plastic replica of the leaning tower of Pisa, an ‘I Love Rome’ t-shirt, and half a dozen business cards.

“I wish you could have been there.” Jongin planted kisses all over Baekhyun’s face once they were back at his apartment. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too.” Baekhyun smiled at his boyfriend, happy to have him home.

“I think that my next gallery event will be in Venice.” Jongin was beaming, clearly ecstatic.

“That is wonderful.” Baekhyun tried to sound excited, but deep down his happiness was halfhearted, his anxiety beginning to build.









Sehun was attentive, always attentive. If he wasn’t painting Baekhyun he was touching him, reaching for him, pulling him to his side or kissing him or ing him like it was their last day on earth. It was passionate and overwhelming and all of the things that Baekhyun never thought he would experience.

Meeting Sehun so haphazardly, at a bar in the village, a silly little dare that had him hanging on the younger man’s before the night was out, changed his life. He was a muse, and from that strange, unbelievable word, he was a member of the art world. Chanyeol ate it up, already a graphic designer, Sehun laughed, humoring Baekhyun’s friend. And for a while it all worked out – gallery openings and ad hoc exhibits and artist friends and days lounging about as Sehun found his starting point.

“I have an invitation to be an artist in residence.” Sehun had informed Baekhyun in the usual way, words ghosting against his bare skin, the afterglow of surrounding them.

“Where?”

“Venice.” Sehun had chuckled. “Funny, huh?”

“Yeah.”









Baekhyun hated the sound, the smells, the din. He hated the narrow cobblestone alleys and the stucco houses that sat far away from the canals. He hated it. He hated all of it, even if it was all a mental image, not a memory – a warped version born of television documentaries and lazy postcards. Jongin looked forward to it, eyes wide, camera in hand, playing the part of a tourist – or so Baekhyun imagined. It was so different, so very different, how they viewed the city. The difference, Baekhyun reminded himself, was that Jongin was there and he- he would never go.

“I love it here!” Jongin gushed over speaker phone, Baekhyun lounging on his ratty sofa as he listened to his boyfriend espouse everything great about the city.

Baekhyun was quiet, his mind somewhere else. Somewhere Jongin didn’t need to be.

“Are you listening?”

“Hm. Yeah.”

“I should be home in a few weeks. Do you want to catch a play when I get back?”

“Sure.”

“I love you.”

“You too.”

“Oh – sorry, I am getting another call. I think it is the gallery owner. Sorry, call you back soon.”

Click.







It wasn’t a sudden change, no, it didn’t happen overnight. Gradually it happened, the depressed moods, the lack of conversation. Baekhyun had hung on every word, hung on every missed phone call, on every time that Sehun was too busy to talk or too tired to call or too engaged in his latest project to shoot off a text message.

“You should go there.” Luhan, Sehun’s older brother, always hung around, prodding, telling him what to do in between dragging Chanyeol to every club that would let the pair in. It was annoying. “He is taciturn by nature, you should go, he is probably lonely.”

Baekhyun ignored him, too caught up in letting Sehun be himself, in waiting for the invitation – certain it would eventually come. It never did. Eventually the brief phone calls ended, eventually the muse felt lost. Eventually Sehun no longer needed him.







Jongin re a Thursday, full of energy, full of the buzz surrounding his exhibition. “I missed you.”

Baekhyun lingered in his arms, hugging himself to Jongin so tightly he thought he might be hurting the man. Jongin just chuckled, returning the embrace. “I was afraid you had forgotten about me.”

“Never.” Baekhyun whispered, knowing what it felt like, or what he imagined it to feel like. To be forgotten. Sehun.









They found his body floating in a canal on a September morning. Luhan called, hysterical.

“You didn’t care, you didn’t even ing care enough to go see him when you knew he was depressed.”

Baekhyun was numb, not sure how to react, not sure what to do.

Was Sehun depressed? Was that it? Was every worry, every petty thing he freaked out about that much more selfish?

His muse couldn’t save him and Luhan would never let Baekhyun forget.

When they brought Sehun’s body back for burial Baekhyun stayed away, adding another regret to his list. At the time, at the time – he couldn’t.









“I met the owner of this little hole in the wall gallery in Venice.” Jongin’s voice was hoarse. He had just woken up. Baekhyun had relished in his attention, the younger man’s half lidded gaze trained on him as they lay in bed after a long night of rediscovering each other after weeks apart. Now – now Baekhyun felt uneasy, nervous, the haze of the night before quickly dissipating.

“Yeah?’

“She said she heard about you.”

Baekhyun blinked rapidly, waiting.

“He painted such beautiful images of you, Baekhyun.” Jongin reached his hand out, carding his fingers through Baekhyun’s messy hair. “I wish I could tell him thank you.”

Baekhyun choked back a sob, the tears threatening to spring forth. How…how was it so…different than he would have thought? He had made a point to never bring up Sehun, to never talk about it, to never compare and contrast verbally. He carefully orchestrated things, making sure Luhan and all of his anger never encountered Jongin and all of his enthusiasm. He threatened Chanyeol to never bring him up. He choked back memories and guilt and pain and now….

“I am sorry, I didn’t, I-“ The tears were flowing, Baekhyun staring into beautiful chocolate eyes as he recalled the way a tall, lanky man told him once upon a time that he was everything, his entire reason for painting, for creating.

Jongin pulled Baekhyun into his arms, rubbing soothing circles on his back. “Shh.”

Baekhyun appreciated the gesture, the understanding that he didn’t have to talk about the five year old wound, the pain. He appreciated it.

“I thought, maybe, but I didn’t know.” Jongin whispered into Baekhyun’s ear, holding him tight.

Of course Jongin probably knew, probably guessed, the paintings were too obvious, the figure too obvious, the social circle – the clique of artists and hanger-ons too limited to keep it buried. Yet, somehow Baekhyun had convinced himself – maybe, maybe he didn’t know. Maybe because Jongin was late into the scene, maybe because he hadn’t been there when Sehun was the one receiving toasts and promises, he wouldn’t know. Maybe because Baekhyun had met Jongin at some out of the way, small town folk art exhibition – Chanyeol dragging him there – he would have no idea of what heaven and hell reality he had gone through in the city, of the artist who had painted him time and time again.

“I love you.” Jongin planted a chaste kiss on Baekhyun’s hairline, so gentle, so calming.

“I love you too.” Baekhyun murmured, resolute he wouldn’t let Jongin go. He wouldn’t, couldn’t. Not now. Not like before.