It takes the two of them much longer than they expected to figure out how to put the snow chains on Taekwoon's wheels. Wonshik feels like internally kicking himself in the balls by the time they're finished for talking like he knew what he was doing only to discover that Taekwoon knew far more about how to put on snow chains than Wonshik could've ever wished to know. Taekwoon stands up with a smirk after finishing the last tire, and pulls his keys out of his pocket to unlock his car.

The key sticks in the lock on the driver's side door, a cream colored replacement with a few dings in it, and Taekwoon puts his foot on the door to brace himself to pull the key out of the lock, knocking a lot of the snow off the car in the process. Wonshik's eyebrows shoot up into his bangs, and Taekwoon climbs into his (mostly) red 1986 Fiat Panda to reach across the seat to pull up the lock for Wonshik to get into the passenger side. Taekwoon plops down in the driver's seat and slams his door shut, and Wonshik is left outside to struggle with opening his own door. He pulls frantically on the door handle, and Taekwoon leans over to motion to pull a little harder. Wonshik gives a good hearty yank and the door flies open with a terrifying screech.

"Sorry," Taekwoon says as Wonshik climbs into the old car. "This car is older than I am."

The interior smells musty and earthy, and of course, the scent of cigarettes hangs lightly in the air. There's a cup holder ashtray with many cigarette butts jammed messily into it, and Wonshik pushes aside a toppling stack of sheet music by his feet with the toe of his shoe to make room for his long legs. Taekwoon puts the key in the ignition and turns violently. The Fiat gives a ghastly wheeze, and for a moment, Wonshik is terrified that the car won't start, but sure enough, the engine stutters on.

"Ah, ." Taekwoon cusses and sits back in his seat. "Forgot to scrape the windshield."

Wonshik looks at the windshield. Of course—how could he not notice? He reaches for the door handle to get out and help Taekwoon, but Taekwoon holds out a hand to stop him.

"I got it," he mumbles, and adds an apology as he reaches down by Wonshik's legs to rummage around under the seat. Wonshik moves out of the way as much as he can, but he can't avoid Taekwoon practically laying his head in his lap. Wonshik holds his breath until Taekwoon sits upright, ice scraper in hand.

Taekwoon uses his shoulder to help his door open and he steps out, leaving the door wide while he scrapes the snow off the windshield. Wonshik takes the time to find and buckle his seat belt, sighing at the homey scent of Taekwoon's car. I wonder if he was in an accident, Wonshik wonders—because of the one cream door. Taekwoon pushes the snow off the passenger's side, and through the frosty glass, smiles warmly at Wonshik. Wonshik swears at that moment all time stops and the clock in the dash stops ticking. He gives a weak smile back, and time resumes.

Taekwoon climbs back into his car again when he finishes, and flings the slightly wet ice scraper into the backseat. He cranks the heater all the way up, and quickly buckles his seatbelt. It's quiet while they wait for the windshield to defrost—even outside the car, there's not much noise at all. The snow seems to mute everything.

Taekwoon lets the car idle until he deems the windshield clear enough to drive and puts the car into reverse, backing out of his spot in the nearly empty parking lot beside the school of music's grand performance hall. Carefully, Taekwoon pulls into the street, creeping along the roadways at an absolute crawl. The snow chains clank and rattle noisily outside the car, but they make Wonshik feel safer.

After about twenty minutes of staring out the window at the snowy city, Wonshik turns to Taekwoon, who has his dark eyes trained on the road with an ever so slightly stressed degree of intensity. "Where exactly do you live?" Wonshik asks, putting his elbow on the window ledge.

"The suburbs," Taekwoon tears his eyes from the road for a split second to glance at Wonshik.

"Oh," Wonshik says, nodding.

 Taekwoon's hands tighten on the steering wheel, and Wonshik thinks that maybe it wasn't the best idea to distract Taekwoon while he's driving. Wonshik returns his attention to the cityscape.

Before long, the two of them arrive at Taekwoon's house, Taekwoon pulling smoothly into the driveway and twisting off the ignition. Wonshik looks out at Taekwoon's home—it isn't at all what he was expecting. Well, actually he wasn't really expecting anything, but Taekwoon's sprawling mansion manages to leave him a little breathless.

Taekwoon immediately gets out of his Fiat without so much as a glance in Wonshik's direction, and carefully navigates his way to the front step, stomping his feet to knock some of the snow off his shoes. Wonshik climbs out of the car after struggling with the door handle, and follows Taekwoon to the door; but not without first slipping a little on a patch of ice. From the outside, Taekwoon's house looks like a grand and pristine estate, with giant picture windows on all sides, but as soon as Taekwoon pushes open the door and steps inside, Wonshik can tell right away that he shouldn't have judged the house by its exterior.

The first thing Wonshik sees is the grand piano, situated smack in the middle of the spacious living room and half buried in an avalanche of sheet music. It's old but the black wood is still glossy (albeit covered in fingerprints and a little bit dusty). Taekwoon toes off his shoes in the foyer and sheds his parka, not bothering to hang it up in the open closet just to his left and simply throwing it on the floor beside his shoes instead. Wonshik follows Taekwoon's lead, but lays his own jacket a little more neatly on the floor. He trails behind Taekwoon as he wanders into the living room and moves some books off a broken-down couch to make room for Wonshik to sit down. Happily, Wonshik plops down, smiling at the floral upholstery. Once settled, he beckons Taekwoon over, and Taekwoon turns around from trying to leave the room.

"Come here," Wonshik murmurs, and Taekwoon comes a little closer. Wonshik beckons again and Taekwoon leans in. Wonshik grabs him by the shoulders and plants a kiss on his plush lips, stealing the breath right from his mouth. Caught by surprise, Taekwoon teeters a bit, but he puts out an arm to steady himself against the back of the couch. Taekwoon lets himself smile into Wonshik's kiss, exhaling lightly. Wonshik can taste the coffee still on Taekwoon's breath, but it seems to be just another integral part of Jung Taekwoon, another part that just completes him. Gingerly, Wonshik uses the tips of his fingers to pull Taekwoon even closer. Taekwoon gives a tiny happy sigh, and helps himself into Wonshik's lap. Wonshik flashes on the night before, and wraps his hands around the back of Taekwoon's neck, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Is this going to be our favorite position?" Taekwoon mutters against Wonshik's mouth with a sly smile.

"You were thinking of yesterday, too," Wonshik chuckles.

Taekwoon lets a light laugh escape him, and he leans in to kiss Wonshik again, this time hungrier, pushing his tongue between Wonshik's rosy lips to explore. The breath in Wonshik's lungs seizes up, and his heartbeat thunders like a runaway train. Taekwoon caresses Wonshik's face and pulls away to ghost kisses over Wonshik's perfectly drooping eyelids before getting up off his lap. "I'm going to change," Taekwoon whispers. "Feel free to look around."

Wonshik nods and Taekwoon disappears down a hallway, scuffing his feet on the dark wood flooring.

Once Taekwoon is gone, Wonshik looks around the living room with wide eyes. The house is so modern—and no doubt incredibly expensive. He must come from a wealthy family, Wonshik thinks, standing up to look at the bookshelves lining one wall. The ceilings are tall and vaulted, and all the walls are a clean eggshell white. Wonshik runs his fingers along the spines of a row of books, looking absentmindedly at the titles. It seems like there are multiple poetry anthologies, but there are more books on self-help and composing than anything else. Wonshik stops with his fingertips on a book by a man named Alain de Botton, titled "Essays in Love". He pulls it off the shelf and glances at the cover and the synopsis on the back, duly noting the subject matter of the book. He puts it back before moving on.

Taekwoon returns shortly, only having changed into jeans. He tugs nervously at the neck of Wonshik's borrowed sweater as Wonshik grins broadly. "Are you hungry?" Taekwoon asks.

Wonshik shrugs, then nods, and Taekwoon motions to follow.

Taekwoon leads Wonshik through his home, past uninhabited bedrooms and catastrophically messy studies, until they step into the kitchen. Wonshik's eyes widen. The kitchen is vastly different from the rest of the house—not in terms of design or décor, no, but in terms of cleanliness. The rest of the house had been chaotic, with piles of paper and discarded clothing and shoes scattered haphazardly about. Wonshik had thought that his own apartment was on the cluttered side, but Taekwoon's home far surpasses cluttered. However, the kitchen is a completely different story.

Every surface is pristinely clean; not a speck of dust in sight. And all the cupboards are tidily shut, and the copper-bottom stainless steel pots and pans hang above the kitchen's center island, glisteningly clean. It seems to speak to what Taekwoon finds important, Wonshik thinks (food, of course), stepping up to the counter where several barstools stand. "Wow," he breathes. "Your kitchen is incredible."

Taekwoon cracks a smile, but turns and goes to open the fridge to hide it.

"Do you like to cook?" Wonshik asks, looking up at the pots hanging then glancing over at the wall of windows on the opposite side of the kitchen from the cooking range and oven, on Wonshik's right.

"I like to eat," Taekwoon answers, a hint of a laugh hiding in his soft voice. He turns around from the refrigerator with a carton of eggs, a block of cheese, and a green bell pepper. "Omelets okay?"

Wonshik nods enthusiastically, and Taekwoon sets about preparing their food, taking down a skillet and rummaging for a whisk and a spatula. Wonshik climbs onto one of the barstools, and folds his arms on the countertop, watching Taekwoon with wondering eyes. There's an elegance about Taekwoon's every movement, a chicness that ades his every motion, even the simple and menial ones. Wonshik sighs, wondering how such a beautiful person could exist—and in his possession, too. He wishes he had his sketchbook with him. Wonshik tears his eyes away from Taekwoon's focused expression and looks down at his forearms on the cool grey granite countertop. For a moment, he feels as though it's all a dream, that he simply made up everything that happened yesterday and in the morning, that he simply imagined meeting Taekwoon that second time, that he's still asleep in his drawing class and soon the professor will wake him up and everything will disappear. Wonshik presses his eyes shut and furrows his eyebrows. "Mind if I have a cigarette?" Wonshik asks, opening his eyes.

Taekwoon shakes his head, and sets down his knife to pull open a drawer near Wonshik and take out a mostly empty box of cigarettes, a lighter, and an almost overflowing ashtray, pushing them towards Wonshik across the counter. Wonshik mumbles a thanks, fishing a cigarette out of the box and putting to his lips.

The scent of smoke hangs sweet in the air, and Wonshik exhales heavy grey. A sense of lightness washes over him, and Taekwoon returns to cooking omelets for himself and Wonshik. Wonshik allows his mind to wander, and before long Taekwoon is placing a plate of steaming food in front of him. Wonshik grins in thanks, and Taekwoon grabs them forks and sits at the barstool beside Wonshik as Wonshik grinds out his cigarette in the ashtray. They eat together in silence, Taekwoon more focused on his food than on Wonshik, and Wonshik more focused on Taekwoon than on his food. When they finish, Taekwoon piles their dishes in the sink to deal with later, and grabs Wonshik by the elbow to lead him down yet another hallway. "My studio," Taekwoon says as they stop in front of the door at the end of the hall. He lets go of Wonshik's elbow in order to push the door open.

Wonshik's first impression is that of a cave. The lighting is dim and the room is small, packed tight with miscellaneous equipment, and at the end of the room, a Plexiglas box big enough for a stool, a keyboard and a microphone. A recording booth. Wonshik whistles, impressed. There's a second keyboard in the room proper, alongside a desk, mixer boards and a set of turntables. The walls are lined with posters of bands Wonshik's never even heard of, and there's several concert t-shirts on the floor and one draped over the back of the rolling chair in front of the turntables. On Wonshik's right is a long, low, bookshelf packed to overflowing with old vinyl records, sleeves tattered and some without covers.

Taekwoon sits down in the rolling chair and pries open the laptop on the desk, punching the power button and waiting for it to start up. Wonshik marvels slack-jawed at the studio, despite its dusty and neglected state, and Taekwoon rustles through some papers and hunts for a pen. He sets them out for Wonshik when finds something to write with.

"Write for me," Taekwoon demands in his quiet voice, and Wonshik pulls his attention to the paper, hesitantly picking up the ball-point pen Taekwoon found.

After a moment, Wonshik cracks a smile and begins to write, crouching in front of the desk, poetry flowing from fingertips to ink to paper, blooming into long messy scrawls. Taekwoon hides his own smile behind his hand, and puts on headphones to begin laying down the track.

There's magic in the air, Wonshik concludes as they work together all day long, Wonshik writing and rewriting his verses and Taekwoon dropping beats and editing melodies. By about two in the afternoon Wonshik has his rap for Taekwoon's melody finished, and he gives it a test run in Taekwoon's Plexiglas recording booth, pouring those words from his heart into the condenser mic, love-kissed lips just barely brushing the pop filter.

Taekwoon leaves the recording running when Wonshik finishes. "What do you think?" Wonshik asks into the mic so Taekwoon can hear.

"Is that really what you think of me?" Taekwoon whispers. Wonshik can see Taekwoon's mouth moving on the other side of the Plexiglas, but he can't hear or make out what those perfect lips are saying.

Wonshik pulls off his headphones and pushes open the door to the recording booth.

"Is that really what you think of me?" Taekwoon repeats.

Wonshik nods, holding Taekwoon's gaze. Taekwoon's eyes flick all over Wonshik's face, and his mouth hangs slightly open. It seems like he's trying to form the right words to say, but nothing comes out. Wonshik nods again. Taekwoon shuts his mouth.

They name the song "Frozen Time"—Wonshik thinks it's fitting, and Taekwoon likes it for tying in with what he claims to be his favorite line. By evening they finish the entire thing, and Taekwoon burns it to a CD for Wonshik, carefully pulling it from his computer and sliding it into a paper sleeve. Wonshik notes an incredible sense of care in Taekwoon's every action, as though Taekwoon were performing some kind of ritual. Wonshik holds his breath as Taekwoon places their creation into his hands.

Taekwoon sighs and closes his laptop. "Are you ready to go home?"

Wonshik wants to reply with some kind of poetic like "Anywhere I'm with you is home to me," but he bites his tongue. "Yeah," he croaks.

They shuffle out of Taekwoon's dim studio and stumble down the hall, Taekwoon walking much closer to Wonshik than is really necessary. Wonshik doesn't mind, though. As long as Taekwoon is comfortable. Wonshik pulls on his parka and shoves his feet into his shoes, and Taekwoon does the same. It occurs to Wonshik that he should ask for his sweatpants back, but Wonshik brushes off the notion and decides that Taekwoon can keep the clothes he lent him.

Taekwoon pushes open the front door and they both look outside; only a bit of the snow has melted. Taekwoon leads the way to his beat up Fiat, and they climb inside, settling contentedly into the seats. Smiling, Wonshik leans over and plants a kiss on the corner of Taekwoon's mouth, and Taekwoon fumbles abruptly with the keys in the ignition. Out of the corner of his eye, Wonshik can see Taekwoon turn pink as he starts the car.

"Hey," Wonshik blurts as Taekwoon shifts the car into reverse. "If you don't mind me asking, were you in an accident recently? Because of the replacement door."

Suddenly, the air in the car tenses, and Wonshik's breath catches in his throat. Taekwoon's hands constrict violently on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning bone pale. Taekwoon turns the most scared, stormy, and heart-broken eyes on Wonshik, and Wonshik is paralyzed.