"Wonshik,"

A voice drifts into Kim Wonshik's foggy, still-asleep mind, faint and distant. Slowly, Wonshik rolls onto his side, stretching and yawning. Crisp late autumn sunlight spills in from his bedroom's window, and Wonshik sits up, his covers falling off his lean frame. Rubbing his eyes, Wonshik looks around his room with blurry sight. His desk is an avalanche of papers and books and miscellaneous pencils, and there's clothing cascading out of his closet and onto the floor. It's horrendously messy, but it's almost always been that way. Wonshik can't remember the color of or the last time he saw the room's nubby carpeting. "Wonshik?" The voice says again, and there's a light rap on Wonshik's door.

"Yeah?" Wonshik croaks, running a hand through his dark brown hair. It's a little painful when he blinks, sleepiness still stuck in his eyes.

"You wanted to go to that film festival thing today, right?" The voice registers in Wonshik's mind as his roommate's and Wonshik drags himself out of bed, kicking aside cans of spray paint, cartons of cigarettes (bad habit, Wonshik knows), and ragged sketch books to make a pathway to the door. The acrid scent of aerosol paint hangs in the air heavily, and when Wonshik opens the door, there's a blast of fresh air that smells like just-brewed coffee. Wonshik reaches up and cinches the hood of his sweatshirt tighter around his neck.

"Morning, Hakyeon," Wonshik mumbles, shouldering past his roommate. Hakyeon jerks his cup of coffee out of the path of Wonshik's lumbering.

"So did you want to go?" Hakyeon follows Wonshik into the kitchen, hovering as Wonshik pours coffee into his favorite mug.

"Yeah," Wonshik says. His voice is groggy, and he takes a sluggish gulp of the bitter coffee. "What time is it now?"

"About eight-thirty," Hakyeon says, climbing onto the counter to sit cross-legged.

Wonshik grunts, leaning on the edge of the sink. He glances around their bare apartment with half-open eyes, and sighs heavily. It's his second year at art school, and while there's little furniture in the flat, the walls are covered with his acidic and colorful pop art, some walls dripping with graffiti, others with canvases. Art is Wonshik's greatest love, along with music and his family. It's his escape, his safe haven. Swaying with sleepiness, Wonshik sips at his coffee again, Hakyeon staring expectantly at him with bright eyes. Hakyeon is studying graphic design as a third year, and he moved in with Wonshik at the start of the fall term after finding Wonshik's newspaper ad about the spare room in his apartment he was renting out. Hakyeon is a vibrant and exuberant person, and oftentimes Wonshik wonders if Hakyeon doesn't energy.

"So are you going?" Hakyeon asks again, wiggling around.

Wonshik nods. "Yeah." He sets down his coffee and pushes up his sweatshirt sleeves. "Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Going,"

Hakyeon shakes his head, and tosses back the rest of his coffee. "No, I've got a seminar," he says, jumping down from the countertop.

"I see," Wonshik folds his arms. "You seem excited about it, though."

"No," Hakyeon huffs as he shoulders Wonshik out of the way to put his cup in the sink. "I wanna make sure you go, because you've been excited about it all week long."

"Have I?" Wonshik laughs, moving out of the way for Hakyeon.

Hakyeon nods, staring at Wonshik with mock seriousness. His nostrils flare and Wonshik almost can't keep a straight face. "Have fun," he says after thumping Wonshik playfully on the chest.

Wonshik chuckles as Hakyeon retreats into the living room, moseying back into his own room shortly after to scratch up an outfit and do something decent with his hair.

It doesn't take Wonshik long to put himself together and soon he's hopping down the apartment steps and onto the sidewalk of the street below. Luckily, their apartment's location is quite decent—on the edges of campus but also close enough to all the main buildings. There's not many people out, and the air is bitingly cold. Wonshik pulls his parka tighter about himself and yanks his beanie lower over his ears. His breath fogs in front of himself, and he sets off in the direction of the film and television campus. The walk takes about ten minutes, and Wonshik is able to listen to three and a half songs along the way.

He pulls his earbuds out when he reaches a sparse throng of people waiting to enter the film festival, winding up the cord and zipping his MP3 into his backpack. Peering over the tops of people's heads, Wonshik can see nearby the table where admission stamps and event brochures are administered. Wonshik reaches the table within a minute or so, and he's handed a brochure with the festival's schedule and his hand is stamped with a small blue star. He enters the main building of the film school and dives into the growing crowd of people, looking at the schedule of student-made films showing in the lecture hall. There's a particular feel to independent cinema and it hangs thickly in the air like dense golden sunlight, swirling and dancing with the dust motes. The first film on the schedule for the lecture hall closest to Wonshik is playing at nine thirty, a short documentary-style film following the character of a man in love with a woman who doesn't feel the same.

Wonshik pulls open the door to the lecture hall and enters the already dark classroom-turned-theater, and takes a seat in the middle bank of auditorium seats, at the edge of the aisle on the left. He struggles with the seat before finally flopping down, setting his backpack between his feet and rolling up the pamphlet in his hand. At the front of the room, a small team of students fuss with a laptop, setting up the film.

Slouching, Wonshik spaces out, drumming mindlessly on the arms of his seat until he hears the movie begin to play, looking up at the white-on-black opening credits as a light piano soundtrack plays. The film pulls Wonshik in for the first half, but soon his eyes begin to wander.

The lecture hall is only a quarter of the way full, Wonshik notices, and the largest concentration of students is on the right side of the hall. There's only one other person on the far left side with Wonshik, sitting a few rows ahead and across the aisle. Wonshik's eyes fall on the young man, illuminated dimly by the light from the screen.

Immediately, Wonshik can't tear his eyes away.

He's a student, Wonshik guesses, judging by the book bag at his feet and the tiredness about him. The student sits with long pale fingers splayed on his knees, elegant and ghostly, and Wonshik blinks with intrigue. Wonshik takes in all he can of the other's back, from the oversized black parka to his backlit profile. He's very beautiful, Wonshik thinks, with his straight nose and poised small mouth. His angular eyes are guarded, holding back secrets and masking emotions. Wonshik leans forward to look as closely at the man's cagey eyes as he can, wondering what exactly they might be hiding. For a sudden moment Wonshik gets a strange feeling that the young man knows he's staring, and he tears his gaze away and fidgets in his seat.

Wonshik tries to look at everything but the other student for the remainder of the film, having lost interest in the story. He doesn't even notice the movie until the ending credits begin to roll, the same white-on-black lettering, another soft piano song—this time, a gentle voice sings, too. Wonshik can't quite hear, but it sounds as though there are two voices. One recorded, one live, and it's captivating, creeping out over the mostly empty audience with tender emotion. Wonshik's gaze is drawn back to the pretty and mysterious student when an abrupt movement flashes in the corner of his eye. Wonshik looks away from the name of the soundtrack composer on the screen to look at the young man several aisles ahead, and suddenly something clicks in his mind. The only time the student moved was when the composer's name appeared on the screen, and the quiet singing had seemed to be coming from his direction. Wonshik remembered the name that he saw: Jung Taekwoon.

Uncannily, Taekwoon shifts in his seat when Wonshik makes the connection, sending a shiver riveting up Wonshik's spine. In a daze, Wonshik stuffs his program into his backpack and stands up in synch with Jung Taekwoon, who gracefully slings his own bag over his shoulder. Taekwoon steps out into the aisle and turns to make his exit.

"Jung Taekwoon?" Wonshik ventures, voice weak, gripped with nervousness.

Taekwoon stops walking in front of Wonshik, but keeps those guarded eyes trained steadily on the floor.

"Are you Jung Taekwoon?"

Wonshik takes the lack of a reply as "yes".

"You wrote that… the s-soundtrack." Wonshik points awkwardly at the screen, embarrassed at the stutter in his deep voice. Wonshik waits for Taekwoon to glance in acknowledgment at him, but Taekwoon's broad, slouching shoulders don't even twitch. The black puffy jacket Taekwoon's wrapped in makes him seem giant—he's the same height as Wonshik, and definitely wider in shoulder. "It was good. I-I liked it."

Wonshik freezes when Taekwoon blinks and slips a glance at him. "Thank you," Taekwoon says, and the breath leaves Wonshik's lungs. Taekwoon's voice is purely ethereal, soft and delicate and surprisingly lofty, Wonshik thinks, for his stature. Taekwoon gives a short and awkward nod, and strides off, shoving his longs hands into the pockets of his parka.

Wonshik stares after, mouth agape and breath shallow. He's not sure what it is, but something about that Jung Taekwoon is painfully intriguing. Maybe it's the voice. Maybe it's the juxtaposition of voice, frame and body language. Weakly, Wonshik grabs the strap of his backpack and shoulders it on, the lecture hall's lights flickering on and momentarily blinding him. Wonshik blinks and drifts out into the hallway again, unconsciously scanning the crowd for Taekwoon.

Until lunch time he drifts through the crowds, looking at this display and that display. He doesn't see another film; he's too entranced by the soft voice of Jung Taekwoon. He wants to hear Taekwoon sing again. He wants Taekwoon to glance at him again. Wonshik stops in front of a trifold poster board display. He looks at it passively, without registering any of what it says, his hands clenched into fists and stuffed deep in his jeans' pockets.

He glances up lazily when he hears a rustle behind the folding table of displays, but immediately returns his focus (or lack thereof) to the poster board. It's a presentation about music composition for soundtracks, discussing the aspects behind composing a piece to accompany a visual. It's moderately interesting, but Wonshik wouldn't want to study the subject any further.

"I… can answer questions," a feathery voice says, almost too quietly.

Wonshik lifts his eyes again.

Jung Taekwoon stands behind the display table, eyes fixated on the concrete floor. He's not wearing his parka now; only a wide-necked cottony blue knit sweater.

"I don't have any," Wonshik mumbles, reaching up to fuss with his dark hair with one hand.

Taekwoon doesn't budge. He looks paralyzed and almost fearful, and Wonshik wonders if it's because of the crowds. Unconsciously, he takes a step backwards, and then another, and another, and before Wonshik can stop himself, he's walking away, the image of Taekwoon's porcelain face imprinted in his mind. Wonshik isn't aware of what he's doing until his hand is on the doorknob of his apartment's front door and he's stepping inside and setting his bag down at the threshold.

"You're back early," Hakyeon chirps from the couch, laptop balancing precariously on his knees. He's nested in a mess of papers and gridded notebooks, and there's a bag of chips on the floor. "Was it fun?" Hakyeon asks, typing slowly and awkwardly with his pointer fingers. He looks up from his computer screen at Wonshik, and his typing stops. "You okay?"

Wonshik stands in the middle of the living room, shock still. "Yeah," he says, and suddenly snaps out of it, Jung Taekwoon's face shattering in his mind. "Yeah, I'm fine." He clears his throat and pulls off his beanie, mussing up his hair to eliminate hat-head. "I just… met someone, is all." An awkward smile tugs at his lips before disappearing.

Hakyeon whistles and wiggles his eyebrows. "Finally met a lady friend?"

"No," Wonshik huffs, flopping into the only arm chair in their living room, pushing aside a falling-apart French art anthology.

"Oh." Suddenly Hakyeon's face turns dark. "So you're like that."

Wonshik shakes his head frantically and waves off the comment. "No, no! I'm not like that, I just…" Wonshik trails off. "Have you ever just wanted really badly to be friends with someone?" Taekwoon's face drifts into Wonshik's mind again, with its high pale cheek bones and downcast eyes. Wonshik rubs a hand over his face.

Hakyeon thinks hard for a moment. "No," he says after a moment with an oddly playful frown.

Wonshik sighs and stares at the ceiling. "I'm gonna paint," he says after a while, pulling himself upright and shuffling into his room. He shuts the door behind himself and his nose fills again with the chemical scent of art supplies. Stumbling over things on the ground, Wonshik reaches for his window and slides his open, allowing for the cool fresh air outside to drift in. He makes a space for himself on the floor and finds a box of cigarettes, putting one on his lip and rummaging for the lighter in his pocket. His lungs fill with the smoke and a warmth draws over him.

Humming low, Wonshik pulls close his box of acrylic paints and a mid-size gesso board, picking up a handful of paintbrushes from a mason jar. He selects one and squeezes a glob of paint directly onto the board, dragging the paintbrush delicately through the color. Wonshik knows he shouldn't paint without water, but he doesn't care.

Wonshik smiles when the comforting sense of peace that comes when he creates art washes over him, and he takes a long draw on his cigarette. Absorbed in his creation and floating in a smoky haze, Wonshik doesn't realize the face forming on his canvas in shades of cotton cerulean blue, white and neon colors. He stubs out his cigarette when he's half-way done and continues to work.

Finished, Wonshik sits back with a sigh and stares at the painting in his lap. "Jung Taekwoon," he whispers, rubbing his now-aching forehead. He sets the painting aside, the soft piano music from the film stuck in his head, along with Taekwoon's fine china voice.

"Who's that?"

Wonshik jumps, gasping and laying a bony hand over his heart. Hakyeon leans on the doorframe to Wonshik's room, munching on a handful of chips, his nose scrunched up. "You scared me," Wonshik croaks, his heart thundering.

"That the guy you met today?" Hakyeon presses. Wonshik exhales heavily. "No wonder you're so affected, he's gorgeous." Hakyeon crunches noisily on a chip. "What's his name?"

Wonshik sets down the paintbrush in his hand. "Jung Taekwoon," he answers automatically before he stops himself and whips his head up. "Wait. Why are you asking me this, huh?"

Hakyeon shrugs. "Dunno. Just curious." He steps into Wonshik's room to get a closer look at Wonshik's new painting, coughing when he passes into the standing cloud of cigarette smoke. "Yah, stop smoking in the flat," Hakyeon wheezes, trying to wave the smoke out the open window. "Is smoking even allowed here?" Hakyeon stoops low to look at the painting.

Wonshik scratches at his temple. "Not sure," he mumbles.

"Wow," Hakyeon says after a moment of ignoring Wonshik. "You've got good taste, man. Good luck!" Hakyeon gives a thumbs-up and picks his way back to the door, coughing into his fist from the cigarette smoke. "Sheesh, the air in here…" Hakyeon mutters.

"Good luck with what?" Wonshik calls after, standing up as Hakyeon steps half into the hallway. "I told you I don't swing that way."

Hakyeon turns around at the doorway. "Wonshik," he says, face a little frustrated, "The color of your face is a little… telling, you know." Hakyeon points at Wonshik's face, and Wonshik claps both hands over his warm cheeks.

"Don't tease me," Wonshik says, covering his embarrassment with a low, joking voice.

"Fighting!" Hakyeon chimes in a patronizing tone, pumping a fist in the air.

Wonshik can feel the heat in his face fluctuate as Hakyeon leaves. "It's not like that," Wonshik says quietly to himself, letting his hands fall away from his cheeks. He sighs, looking at the painting of the student Jung Taekwoon at his feet. It's a mess of sickly bright colors, entirely unbefitting of the pastel-voiced Taekwoon. Slowly, Wonshik crouches before the still-wet painting and slaps his palm right into its center, cheap latex acrylic oozing between his fingers. Decisively, Wonshik wipes away half his creation.