I watch him.

The guilty pleasure of a hungry lion eyeing his prey.

Jongin is sprawled across the base of the backdrop.  This time, not an inch of his skin is uncovered.  Still, I remember the first the day that he came to the studio.  That was a week ago, but I can still feel the fire dancing in my cheeks.

My eyes follow the curves of his arms as he lies back.  I dare not blink, as if doing so would cause the creature to disappear.  His own two eyes are closed, peacefully, drinking in the quietness of his observers.  If one couldn't hear his slow breathing, it would look like his heart had stopped beating.

The sound of the cameras buzz like baby mosquitoes around us.

"Am I doing something wrong?" he asks, sending a chill of broken silence through the air.  Jongin.  I record this voice as the one that sounds deeper than it should, quieter than it should.

He turns from his back onto his side, resting his cheek in his hand as he supports himself on his elbow. His eyes are serious but his tone is mischievous. "If you don't like something, tell me. I'll fix it."

I fumble with my camera for a few moments before realizing that his question is directed at me.

"You're doing fine," I reply, avoiding his eyes. "Just fine."

He smirks, mocking the gaze of the director standing behind me.  

"Liar.  If something is wrong, you have to tell me.  I'll fix it."

"Nothing's wrong," I assert.  "You're perfect."

Jongin pushes himself up, lifting himself away from the backdrop.  Without knowing, I take a step back.  

He reaches for his white coat.  

An hour of tension is suddenly dismissed, as if the atmosphere of the room were controlled by Jongin's movements.  When he lies still, so does the room.  But when he moves, the studio is filled with color.  The team of photographers sense his placid disinterest in their presence, and they disperse.  

And we're left alone again.

"Perfect," he says, the syllables rolling lazily on his tongue.  "Perfect.  Me?"

He winces as he throws the coat over his shoulder, line upon line of knit fabric hugging his upper body like a coat of defensive armor.  

His steps bring him closer, and closer.  I stand dumbly, unsure whether or not to back away or wait until he comes.  

We're the definition of push and pull.  He takes one step forward, and I take two steps back.  If I approach him, I feel like he'll avoid me on purpose now that he knows I like to stare at him when he's modeling.  But I don't want it this way, not really.  

In a matter of seconds my thoughts are blurred once again and he stands a few inches taller than me.  I keep my head down, but this feeling is far from daunting.  Almost comforting, protective.

I catch the scent of his heady aftershave, and I lean in closer.  

"Perfect," he says, his tone barely above a whisper.  

And closer.

"Perfection.  You know very well doesn't exist in our world."

___

I'm walking home, step over step as I watch the asphalt ground slip beneath my padded shoes.  It's quiet, the road lit by unhappy street lamps.  I slink in and out of the circles of light that line the sidewalk.  Light, dark, light, dark.  

I wish that there would be rain, wind, or snow--something to fill in the silence that clouds the loneliness as I cross the street.  

The pounding in my head reminds me of Jongin's slow words, spoken with impending confidence, as if he knows something that I don't.

Perfection.  

A frozen concept that I haven't even thought before of nonetheless discuss.  I feel exposed, like I've let myself open up a bit too much today. The way Jongin picks up on these ideas, makes me uneasy.  

Even though his eyes were closed, he knew I was watching him.  I'm not sure whether to deem it as a coincidence, or like I've said before--magic.  An illusion.

Just an illusion.

__

Twenty-four hours later, I sit with Jongin over a cup of cooling coffee.  Neither of us say a word, and I'm afraid to bring up yesterday's incident.  I don't want to make it seem like I'm bothered by things like this, watching him.  Nor do I enjoy it, or want it to look like that either.

I blink profusely, fingers crossed and rested on the table.  Jongin drinks from his cup.  

"What makes you model?" I voice, distracting my own thoughts.  I don't mean to say it, but I have to admit I'm curious after observing him so closely.  "I mean, why?"

Jongin runs his finger along the rim of his cup, his skin blurring behind the steam that emits from his dark drink.

"Me?" he says.

I wait for his answer.

"Why do I model," he repeats.  The words linger on his tongue.  I can still hear them ringing.

"It makes me happy," he finally says, smirking.

"Really?"

"No," he says, laughing.  "I do it because the camera loves me."

He sounds so sure, so confident.  Experienced and definite, that it makes me jealous.  So I ask if he loves the camera too.

He chuckles again.  A low satisfying chuckle that gleams in his eyes.  That rings in my ears.  He says, "Not the way you do, hyung.  We love in different ways."

"Don't call me hyung," I say.  "It makes me feel old."

Jongin doesn't look up from his cup when he speaks.  He stares at his hands, or at my hands.  He smiles when I tell him not to call me hyung.

Jongin asks, "Then what's so good about photography? What's the point of seeing life through a machine when there's so much to see with the eyes?"

I'm surprised.  He doesn't laugh when he asks me about these things, about what I like to do.  And he speaks so softly, but his voice is so strong.

Vibrant.

Mellow.

Musical.

But like my very first photography teacher--the one who smiled and died--Jongin's voice is sad.  Like the one who assured me that there was more to dreaming than just hope.  The one I never cared to reply to.

I sip my flavorless coffee, without answering his question.