Credits go to kurogane, for this amazing poster.

[Five. Dinner]

Dara narrowed her eyes. Somehow she felt played by Jiyong. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“That, jagiya, is supposed to mean that I am definitely not the flower boy who, and I quote, is gay.” Jiyong chanted Dara’s previous words back to her. He smirked darkly. “You’d be surprised at how much I’m not. Want me to prove it to you?” Dara did not miss the suggestive tone underneath that half-kidding, half-threatening statement. He felt humiliated by her words then, and she’s guessing that, now that he has the upper hand, he will not be proving that he’s not a flower boy...but that he’s not gay if he gets the chance to. And the ways he could possibly do that are not pleasant, though Dara assume it would be pleasurable. Wait, Dara gasped inwardly at her own trail of thoughts, did I just say it would be pleasurable?! Dara could not believe herself. This is what you get for hanging around someone with unlimited appeal, she decided fervently. “So, onto the next topic. What other musicians do you like?”

Dara rolled her eyes. “Anyone who makes good music”

“Which must mean: not a lot,” Jiyong snickered as he parked the car in front of the grand revolving doors of an alpine apartment building. He got out hurriedly, tossed the keys to the valet hurriedly dashed forward, and opened Dara’s door for her. Taking her hand, Jiyong took the lead as they went pass the lobby and towards the three elevators. Dara caught a glimpse of the lobby, and it was shiny, so shiny that any person with normal eyesight would wince at the sight. Shiny, polished concrete floors...shiny chandeliers dripping from the high ceilings....even to the point of the surface of vases and leather chairs situated everywhere were glowing. It made her eyes water with discomfort, and it was not until they went inside the elevator on the right when she stopped blinking. Even the inside of the elevator was decorated in classic and high-priced tastes, and the buttons of the floors were so nicely polished they were gleaming Tch, how can rich people stand this, it hurts the eyes. Frowning, Dara realized there were only three buttons with floor numbers on them, 45, 46...and Jiyong pressed 47 after swiping his sensor key Seeing her baffled look, Jiyong explained. “We have our own private elevator.”

“Of course,” Dara remarked sarcastically, “everyone does.”

Jiyong burst into laughter, fondled lovingly with Dara’s hair with his free hand that was not holding her hand, and Dara swatted the hand away, unaware that they were still holding hands. “Anyway, to continue our previous conversation, you must not have a lot of good musicians to like. The singers these days are horrible, lacking of talent.” Dara’s eyes widened at how similar their opinions were. “Few of them make good music these days. But really,” Jiyong cocked his head to the side to observe Dara seriously, “what music do you listen to? I want straightforward answers, don’t make me pry open your phone to see what music is on there.”

“Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky...Rachmaninoff...the classics.” Dara shrugged. Jiyong nodded; Dara was superb in piano too, from what he heard. “Maroon 5...Christina Aguilera...Bigbang...” Jiyong could not help but snicker, to which he was rewarded with a glare from Dara. “What? Is there anything wrong with liking boy bands? They’re the most talented men in the industry!”

Jiyong shook his head. “No, nothing wrong with that. I like their flair of music too. I just never pegged you for the idol group type.”

“Boy bands,” Dara corrected. Jiyong shrugged, a hint of a smile dancing on his lips. She was opening up to him, and he’s falling hopelessly deeper in obsession with her.  Every expression of hers, even one of annoyance when correcting she liked boy bands and not idol groups, was so captivating, etching every little detail into the surface of his heart. “I assume you like those barbie doll girl groups who dance around cutely and wear skimpy clothing?” She looked at him scathingly. “Men, all the same. Only for looks.”

“Hey, I never said anything about liking them!” Jiyong protested as the elevator door opened, and he scanned the sensor key, the door swung open to reveal his apartment. “Look around, jagiya, I’ll just go change my clothes. Don’t even think about escaping.” Unexpectedly, he raised Dara’s hand, which he had been holding all this time, to his lips, and grazed it softly with a kiss before he unwillingly let go, and disappeared into the left hallway. Blinking, not quite sure if she had just imagined this, Dara looked around her surroundings in curiosity.

Kwon Jiyong lived in luxury, that was for sure. What else could be expected from the son of the principal of the best university in South Korea? The entryway led to the open space of a kitchen on the left, a spacious living room in the front, and a hallway leading to the right. All the doors were painted black, with white trim, giving it a modern look that screamed out rich, but kept it modest and simple. The kitchen walls were painted white, with a smooth marble counter top, white dangling pendant lights, cabinets the color of maple with walnut stain, and bar stools of the exact same brown. Kwon and I really live in different worlds. The thought dawned upon Dara as she stepped slowly into the living room. Inside glass shelves besides the giant TV screen that was enough to be mistaken as a door, there were exotic-looking carvings and collector pieces, and on the spotless mantle of the fake fireplace was a piece of driftwood. Make that, a piece of driftwood that was probably touched by Napoleon or Mother Theresa, Dara shook her head at the absurdity and driftwood. She does not get why anyone would want to put a piece of driftwood in their house, nor does she understand why anyone would have a stone fake fireplace with an extra extended area for sitting that was placed with oriental vases with no flowers in them. Turning around to examine every corner, she saw rare oil paintings, sofas as soft as feathers, golden plates, but not a single family picture, souvenir from a trip, or a hint that the apartment was not a showcase room. Sure, her house with Han Byul is nowhere as grand or impressive, but they had pictures bursting with their memories all over the house, as well as postcards and souvenirs from their road trips together.

For a minute, she felt a pang of pity for Kwon Jiyong. What would it be like to live in a house that shown no sign of family love or warmth? She could not imagine growing up like that.

“Jagiya!”

Jiyong hissed as he caught her by her waist, stopping her from walking down the carpeted stairs that led to downstairs. He had swapped his childish outfit to a pair of red pants and a black blazer over a simple white t-shirt. Dara looked at him weirdly before pushing him backwards to put space between them. “What?”

“You should not go down there.” Jiyong tugged her hand as he led her to the kitchen.

“Why?”

“He lives downstairs.”

Dara furrowed her arched eyebrows. Jiyong means his father. Dara did not miss the tinge of contempt and coldness in Jiyong’s voice, and shivered slightly. Reacting instantly, Jiyong immediately took off his blazer, showing off his perfectly sculpted body. He draped it over Dara, who stubbornly gave it back to him. A hue of displeasure painted across Jiyong’s face as he in return persistently repeated the same action only to receive the same results. Frustrated, he raked his hand across his hair, but did not dare to scold her. He did not go through all this trouble just to lose his cool. 

“Jagiya, want a glass of water? Lemonade? You can go explore the rooms down the hall while I cook dinner for us.”