Inspired by Brendon Urie's existence.

au contraire (mon aéroglisseur est plein d'anguilles)

Daehyun/Youngjae

It began in 2011, a year of thinned blooms and Jung Daehyun's fourth hit album of bleeding abstract melodies and what-in-the-worlds. Where Jung Daehyun met the love of his life was in his agency, in which the staff are commanded to grovel at his feet and weave a red carpet for famed Jung Daehyun to walk. After all, he was very much their treasured golden ticket.

They sprawled out buffets for his dining pleasure and perpetual appetite, and they demanded nothing short of exquisite to fuel Daehyun's pristine, avant garde muse. The company drew models worldwide, male or female, to arch and bend before the camera so Daehyun could brim with more startling inspiration. No expense was spared for their one and only money maker.

Baroque pop and nine full stops, 7/8 time cadences and intonations of staccatos—all Daehyun knew was eccentricity and the ethereal. Weird was his most widely used moniker and he revelled in the abstruse and unfathomable. Daehyun was not one to simply make use of what he was given; he shoved boundaries and dismantled barriers to his own liking, crafting out building blocks from the debris and drawing medleys from the fibre of the wind.

For someone who had his head stuck in the clouds, it was almost miraculous Daehyun heard Yoo Youngjae from all the way up there. After all, Youngjae was but a boy in checkered sneakers and a loose white shirt, adorned with black skinny jeans and cherry lips. He was no one special—he dressed plainly and was but one of the newly hired coordinators for Daehyun's 2011 grand concert at the national stadium.

Youngjae’s position was much lower as one of the part-time extras aside from the main group, taking orders with a serious countenance and briskly pacing away to handle the technical issues. He directed staff politely and ever so occasionally had to halt to process the numerous commands thrown left and right.

It was on the seat of his styling chair that Daehyun first saw the love of his life. Before the hideously illuminated mirror—where slabs of white are plastered onto his wrinkled skin and they draw him further into the madness he is on the inside (graphite circles and overdone crimson lipstick)—Daehyun always gazed at his own profile and held a staring contest with his reflection. Often, he would play tic tac toe along the edge of his lashes and scrawl on his mind his sudden muses, staring into the shred of insanity many claimed resided within his glassy eyes. Where Daehyun thought of rock gospels and digital shrieks, he saw in this very frame what he would, for years to come, declare as the most beautiful thing to ever walk the earth.

Daehyun’s eyes latched upon a boy with a ruffled fringe and murky eye bags, shuffling around with a stressed out frown. Oh, how enthralled, mesmerised, captivated Jung Daehyun was for no comprehensible reason, by a young man who held too much caffeine within his chapped lips! This man was beautiful! Riveting! Oh, so, enchanting!

The abysmal galaxies of Daehyun’s pupils fixated incessantly on the reflection of another beside the many other extras in the backdrop, Daehyun’s restlessness bleeding into a fantastic amour as he observed without a word. The melodies strung between disgruntled shouts and impatient footsteps, and his stylist tapped his shoulder when he leaned too far to follow the alluring silhouette. White shirt, black jeans, eyes befitting of only the most prized dolls. Jung Daehyun was spellbound by a coffee boy who held no name amid the stomping producers and busy higher-ups.

When the figure shrivelled away into the ear piercing static and vulgarities subtle in the atmosphere, Daehyun's heart was pounding at a ferocity too romantic to pen down into words. Colours brewed like bubbling paint between his fingers and he got up once the make-up brush plopped back into the kit, his stylist confusedly calling for him when he rose and sprinted away. There were eighties sitcoms rolling in Daehyun's head and he drew out raven umbrellas above a classic Rolls Royce phantom, summer rain wrapped up in sepia.

In an emergency dream where the sky collapsed, Jung Daehyun found Yoo Youngjae crouched in the silent back corridors of the stadium, scribbling illegibly onto his clipboard. The frustration between his brows simmered into surprise to see the star of the show wandering about, due for rehearsal in fifteen minutes. He glanced around and figured it must be a case of misdirection, for the Jung Daehyun stood over him, staring without a word.

"Are you lost, Mr. Jung?" Youngjae rose and dusted the back of his faded jeans, exasperatingly plain in juxtaposition with Daehyun and his glitter tuxedo.

"In your eyes, certainly," Daehyun spoke after a few ephemeral moments, deciphering the splashes of pigmentation within the beauty's voice.

Furrowing his brows and simply assuming it was part of Daehyun's eccentricity, Youngjae glanced around and tucked his clipboard under his arm.

"I'll find out where you're supposed to be," Youngjae mumbled, prodding his pen into his pocket. He took a step back and Daehyun breathed a waltz into the ambience, startling the boy when he neared further.

"Inside you, I'm sure," Daehyun whispered sultrily, placing a hand on the wall by Youngjae's head. It was then that the situation mapped out within Youngjae's mind and he fluttered his oh, so long lashes, trying to process Daehyun's innuendo.

Yoo Youngjae decided he had no time for this and slipped out from under Daehyun, throwing the artist a weirded-out look before stalking away. Oh, how mesmerising Yoo Youngjae was with those slender legs and succulent thighs, how his cherry lips pursed at the strangeness composed before him. The more Daehyun looked, the more blinded he was by the polychrome of a boy who was three-fifths a wasted college degree and business equations.

Perhaps it was the disparity between how they worked, the media roused in an attempt to explain Daehyun's vested interest in an absolute nobody, how he batted not an eyelash at equal oddity and avant-garde artist Choi Junhong—who, perhaps just for rivalry's sake, would later come to declare a just as baffling war for Yoo Youngjae's hand. But there was no denying Jung Daehyun fell in love at first sight—and would only delve deeper into his sweet infatuation.

And so began Daehyun's chase which befuddled his company's staff and even more so his friends and family. He whined to see the no-name boy once the maroon curtains fell and doused himself in a night's dream of eyelash curlers and plump, vermillion lips. The next day, he came on time—for the first time in forever—and called for a boy by the name of Yoo Youngjae. The staff were sent into a frenzy trying to dial Korea's number one footballer, only to realise Daehyun was referring to the newbie staff.

Thus, Yoo Youngjae woke up scrambling for the door at the dozens of missed calls. He dashed out into his roommate's rickety car and beat a red light, bed hair sticking up at the ends.

The agency was furious—Daehyun must be demanding for this boy because he slighted him! They were in talks for lawsuits as they discussed what sort of slander miraculously upset Jung Daehyun who just did not care what critics lashed out at him for.

What in the world did Youngjae denounce?

Daehyun's luscious, multi-coloured hair, probably! What jealousy!

His fashion sense—how dare he, Daehyun's plastic bag hat was a monumental art piece!

His lyrics of random French inserts were nothing short of abstract and beautiful! C’est des conneries!

And his sudden twitches were when his golden inspirations struck—they were nothing to be mocked!

Oh, how they were ready to unleash Jung Daehyun's mob of furious fans after some nobody who they forgot his name minutes later. It was only when the poor temporary staff was shoved into the meeting room, shrivelling at the sight of seven higher-ups slicing their indignant glares through his small head, did the truth finally come to light.

Daehyun spoke puzzles as much as he breathed, but there was no denying this was the biggest mystery the paparazzi would come to hound Daehyun and his beloved husband for years to come. As Daehyun laid his eyes upon Youngjae, the entire room collapsed into a tense silence, Youngjae abruptly regretting his decision to disregard Daehyun's eccentric remark yesterday. His short fingers fumbled as Daehyun slowly rose from his chair, irises bleeding of nothing but vengeance and retribution—or so Youngjae thought.

No, the red Daehyun saw was not that of irrepressible irascibility. Velvet primrose, crimson apples, oh, the lavish scarlet Daehyun yearned to ignite upon those chubby cheeks (along with sore cherry shades much lower). He was long planning how their wedding would unfold in the glistening smithereens of happy ever afters and refracted murals before he even reached the boy at the other end of the room. It was then that Yoo Youngjae gulped and renowned artiste Jung Daehyun leaned forward with a smile of astral dust and carmine lust.

"Have you found out?" He breathed, the doe-eyed boy fluttering his lashes in fright and utter bewilderment.

"Where I'm supposed to be," Daehyun purred, bringing up a hand stained with acrylic paint from yesterday's splatter of newfound infatuation and a much unsettling obsession. It simply enthralled Daehyun just how unaware a person could be when he spent the night wondering how the boy's long lashes fluttered, how unapologetic Yoo Youngjae could be for making the Jung Daehyun trip and smash from a now boring cloud nine to mesmerisingly sweet concrete.

"Um- I-" Youngjae stammered over his bland, plain words, everything short of the greatness Daehyun wove with the smithereens of accordion medleys and tip-tap of dance shoes. Daehyun brought up one wrinkled finger and gently placed it upon Youngjae's chest, right above his anxious, pounding heart.

"I believe I am supposed to be here, yes?" Oh, how Jung Daehyun yearned to lewdly trace every of Dali's melted portraits into a skin of too much snow and the sweetest innocence. How he longed to simply break harmonies into those hazel eyes that shimmered like beach wind frozen shy.

"W-What?"

Ah, how remorseless this pretty thing is, Jung Daehyun could only muse as his fingers of yesterday's crayon stains rested upon the nape of Youngjae's neck. All the higher-ups could see was acne scars and painfully plain, yet Daehyun breathed in the most heavenly of rosemary and sour plum from this boy who lived off instant ramen. Oh, what truth to the phrase the apple of one's eyes, for Youngjae was all sorts of forbidden and had the most mystifying velvet of irises Daehyun had ever seen.

"In all my life, I have never met someone who stole my breath in a mere second," Daehyun lamented, edging just a quaver forward. "But it is only now I learn I have only been breathing, but never living."

Yet another spring blink that stringently demanded Daehyun keep his affections at bay but coaxed him to love even more. Daehyun pressed their foreheads together and his manager squeaked in horror at the scene that promptly unfolded before seven men clad in the greyest of suits, coffee punctured into their skin. Jung Daehyun kissed like a french romance escaping to Venice, nipping gently as his hand slipped down to squeeze Youngjae's succulent clothed cheeks.

With his whimper promptly smothered, Youngjae desperately wrenched Daehyun off him and rubbed his lips with the back of his palm, stunned out of his wits. He spluttered, he stuttered, he stammered, and this incoherency would later manifest between the sheets along with the most fragile of moans. Notably, it would also turn out to be a love song of Daehyun's two years after, only to have it be rejected by the traumatised production team (and for the artiste to adamantly upload it to Soundcloud, disregarding the public’s screams and Youngjae's stinging slap).

The mystical string of saliva (that Daehyun's manager nearly threw up at) snapped and Daehyun thumbed the remnants of a sugar sour concoction on Youngjae's lips. The scandalised college graduate promptly recoiled, still numb with horror, and all Daehyun could do was chuckle saxophone smiles.

"You have returned me a few of those breaths you stole," Daehyun rasped huskily, "but I will need you to repay much, much more."

It was then that Youngjae slapped the golden monarch of the music industry and timidly ran for his life. As with all fairy tales and children's books, Prince Daehyun chased after his soulmate—but instead of a glass slipper and a happy ending, Youngjae threatened to call the police and kicked the musical genius straight in his baby maker.

Luckily, an apology with a large strawberry cake—while wearing a crotch protector—was enough to gain Youngjae's forgiveness and prevent an impending restraining order. Youngjae laughed tulips at the metal cup over Daehyun's groin and the starving, unemployed boy was more than willing to compromise with a lovely cake he promptly dug into. It was only when he heard other voices that he realised the box in his hands was most ironically only the frosting on the top of the cake. This was because Daehyun held only the cake, while the workers behind him had to climb the stairs for the elevator was much too short. The gift package shaped in a tower consisted of all sorts of luxuries Youngjae grew wordless at, and it was here Youngjae realised exactly how different they were.

It was also at this moment that the two lovers drew the first silhouette of a bridge to coalesce their two universes.

Jung Daehyun was accustomed to shimmers of silver and lavish jewellery while Yoo Youngjae knew only spare change and scrimping on pocket money. Daehyun was by no means arrogant—though many neglected, indignant critics would argue that he was certainly haughty. Daehyun did not shun the impoverished nor did he feel superior to the point where he refused to touch commoner's food. Why was he branded proud, then? Well, he ignored both good and bad reviews from his debut to the peak of his fame, simply because he wrote music for himself. Sharing his joy with the world was but a bonus. If they liked it, good for them. If they did not, that was okay too. He was not in it for the cut-throat competition of bubble gum squeaky boy bands and concepts.

Sure, he had his pride; he knew certainly the world held him high on a pedestal. It was precisely this that led him to forget what exactly it meant to be average in a bustling city of penny tosses and starving buskers, for Jung Daehyun received only the most bountiful assets as payment. He had four houses (unnecessary but supremely fun to decorate) and numbers unimaginable in his bank account from royalties and gargantuan album sales.

Daehyun furrowed his brows at the curious mention of a student debt and offered to get rid of it with the flick of a finger, having never attended college before. Very much, this spelled the first turn towards a new style of music, from one that spoke of Victorian dreams and the galaxy beyond to rubber smiles and electricity bills.

In a bid attempt to earn the love of a struggling graduate, Daehyun took to extremes so as to be favoured. He visited in the wee hours of the morning with whispers of serenade outside Youngjae's window (quite terrible, really, as Youngjae lived on the sixth floor and boy did the young man think he had met his maker) and spread all sorts of pristine necklaces over the grimy floor with footprints.

More often than not, Youngjae frowned and stubbornly handed them back, but he let Daehyun stay in that dingy three-room apartment. Except for that one time where Daehyun sensually d Youngjae's cheek without permission and roommate Jongup walked in on them. Not many know this for Youngjae wore a baggy sweater that autumnal afternoon, but the reason why he had been so flustered and chased Daehyun out was because he had an itsy bitsy problem down south.

Daehyun saw his divine destiny laid with a boy who spoke honey and smiled so obliviously to the tremors within his heart. Oh, how Youngjae smiled and took no responsibility of the heart he stole. Daehyun grew absolutely desperate to attain the affections of a boy who simply did not falter at the sight of the gold Daehyun offered—literally. All Youngjae saw was useless glitter but his lovely heart saved a space for Daehyun, in spite of the gifts he turned down. He was still ever so kind to the whipped, hopelessly in love man.

Though Daehyun dreamt of twig butterflies and summer snow in his enthralment with all things out of this world, it was with Youngjae that he understood exactly what it meant to be absolutely mesmerised. In what would be Daehyun's most romantic gesture in Youngjae's eyes, the king of the music scene held the boy's hand and offered to take the train with him on their first winter morning. So, as 6AM maroon blues melted into the hustling office workers and monotone rattling of wheels, Youngjae was nestled in Daehyun's chest in the corner of the subway. While, of course, passengers whispered and squinted in enthusiasm to discern the identity of the masked man with almond eyes.

And at 5PM every single day, Daehyun would sit at the lobby of the company where Youngjae was but an ecstatic newbie, penning down his heartache of today for Youngjae left him for nine hours. Even though they met at one o'clock, for Daehyun insisted on having lunch with Youngjae every day as well.

Most wonderfully, the delicate heart of Yoo Youngjae melted just enough to intertwine fingers with a still starry-eyed man. Daehyun was untouchable—Youngjae knew clearly the disparity between them. Daehyun stood out with an aura princes hoped to have just standing in line for the bathroom. Sure, Daehyun's fans mobbed them nearly every day—fansites began to base themselves at the train station hours before, having extorted Youngjae's work schedules from the poor receptionist. But it was nonetheless sweet for Daehyun to groggily emerge at six in a blazer and flip flops despite being used to sleeping in.

Youngjae would soon tiptoe and gently kiss Daehyun on the lips on their way home, baby Spring blooming along the sidewalks. Daehyun would then promptly kiss the boy senseless under a flickering lamppost and proceed to make his lover whimper his name repeatedly for the night, all melted Saturn rings plattered against the trembles of Youngjae's every finger.

Over the following years, Yoo Youngjae inspired three albums of Daehyun's, the musician collapsing into an abyss he claimed was much ceaseless than any composer's rut. He lamented the virtue of happiness in his pursuit to please and wrote of an aphrodite that fooled him once, yet he sought to be fooled again and again. He sang about waiting for the sky to fall and holding it up in desperation, for he learnt of a beautiful daffodil in a field of dozens and dozens more.

Oh, the public deemed Jung Daehyun a disgrace, for his pride was piteously stripped away by a boy who bat not an eyelash at him on first glance. Oh, how terrifying of Daehyun to relinquish his many queen consorts for a no-name to share his throne with. Many B-class models would offer what were between their legs to him just to seize a few minutes of fame. Oh, how strange! How preposterous! Absolutely unthinkable!

Oh, but it was true. Jung Daehyun saw Yoo Youngjae in a manner no one could comprehend, and their odd love would last for eternities to come.