The recital is over.

 

Amongst people off all ages making their way towards the exit, Jongin comes off as quite the serious, unmoving one, perhaps more handsome and imposing than the others, provided his masculine jaw and intense gaze.

 

Behind the black cotton of his jacket, however, lies nothing but a hard-working youth of 25 whose soul flickers in and out of life due to woe and confusion.

 

”What d'ya think, man, hit the jackpot or nah?”

 

Baekhyun's voice startles him, aggressively familiar, inevitably accompanied by his barely existing hum of pleasure when the one he'd been addressing kisses him enthusiastically.

 

”You hit it so well, Baekkie! Come on, Jongin, back me up here, mate!”

 

Baekhyun doesn't need words to know he's done well, but Jongin never actually could handle the both of them entirely and properly.

 

His face lights up with a fake smile, if the protocole exuding from his being is anything to go by. He backs Chanyeol up:

 

”As captivating as ever, hyung.”

 

Baekhyun's smiling, but the stretch of his pinkish lips seems to have nothing to do with Jongin's remark. The latter feels transparent, almost as if the singer were unabashedly looking through him.

 

It does not matter.

 

He should be leaving soon, anyway. With each passing moment in the show hall, it is possible that he could come across him.

 

Him, with whom he is at brief war on grounds of exhaustion.

Him, whom he misses more than he would miss a limb or two, him whom he has wronged upon storming out of the room a while ago, instead of dragging him into his lap and kissing him with ceaseless passion while prompting a discussion about how inconveniently busy the both of them are.

 

”Going on ahead to confirm our dinner reservation, wouldn't want Minseok-hyung to get there before us again!” exclaims Chanyeol, his twisted locks being caringly caressed by Baekhyun's fingers. While noticing the meticulously cut metal forms that are Chanyeol's keys springing out of his pocket, the singer shouts, ever so polite:

 

”You dropped your keys, doofus.”

 

Once the tower of the group is out the door, keys rescued and lover rewarded with a kiss for his superiour spirit of observation, there's no one left amid the chairs, save for Jongin and Baekhyun. The former stoically clears his throat before saying:

 

”Thank you again for inviting me, it was a fun night, I shall return home now.”

 

In the span of a moment so short he wonders whether he's imagining things, he notices how Baekhyun's gaze hardens before reverting to the usual playful, sensitive warmth it has.

 

”Heh, glad you liked it, kid. I've got a request though: would you mind holding my trenchcoat until I come back from the little boys' room?”

 

Scrunching up his nose upon hearing Baekhyun's choice of words, Jongin offers his outstretched arms, with a sigh, feeling a rather childish sensation of obstinate unrest stealthily creeping up his veins. Fixing his eyes on Baekhyun's graceful legs, without actually paying attention to their swaying, he lazily lets himself fall on a nearby chair, nearly succumbing to wait.

 

The lights die.

 

He jolts to his feet, without even having managed to give himself off to that usual state of characteristic inactivity that one experiences during moments without palpable finality.

 

As soon as the stage welcomes a cylindrical, broadening specter of white limelight, he knows he is going to start crying.

 

His acapella has never sounded like this before.

 

 

As the singer allows himself a few seconds to breathe, Jongin hears himself inhaling like a madman, shaking. 

 

 

”I'm sorry, baby..."

 

Jongin doesn't get the chance to shrilly scream the same line because the one with whom he's at brief war continues singing, making goosebumps prickle his skin. He clutches Baekhyun's trenchcoat with his hands as if he were strangulating his archenemy. 

 

 

”Kyungsoo!”

 

 

The last lyric of the second stanza carries shudderingly through the room, the words just about turned into tears and Jongin feels proud, invincible, individualized, but also really, really stupid because he's generating such feelings within his boyfriend.

 

With a spasm of his wrist he's throwing the cream-colored trenchcoat on a chair, plunging forward towards the stage and somersaulting rather grandly, snaking his arms around the still performing singer immediately after, the humid harmony of his musical notes shyly muffled by Jongin's shoulder.

 

 

 

 

A kiss so shattering it overshadows any others they had shared in 2 years of being in love robs Kyungsoo of his air and he seems to be abundantly crying with his eyes closed, instead of rejoicing, the scent of his smooth skin mixing up with Jongin's impetus. 

 

Kyungsoo's hands are loosely holding the microphone while he's wrapping his eager arms closely around Jongin's neck.

The latter locks his hands on Kyungsoo's waist, detaching from the kiss and venturing up, down, right and left his boyfriend's visage, smooching each and every bit.

 

In the last row of the show hall, the other vocalist taps away contently on his expensive phone, deprived of his trenchcoat:

 

”Mission accomplished, Yeollie.”