I still don’t understand love

          Hongki’s head pops into the doorway. “Your boyfriend’s here,” he grins, chucking a rumpled towel into the room and onto Kikwang’s bed. Kikwang kicks it off the footboard and sits up with his ears staring to warm. He sits up and opens his mouth, except that Hongki’s already walked off down the hallway. He sits up and opens his mouth and was about to chuck the towel back because Lee Hongki is the last person who should say something like that to Kikwang considering the other man’s own situation.

          Besides—

          He’s not Kikwang’s boyfriend.

So I can’t get any closer

          He’s not Kikwang’s boyfriend, but Kikwang can understand why everyone at the club is starting to think so—or at least about it. He can understand because even ones who have Kikwang listed as their favorite—as their weekly schedule—even they don’t drop by as regularly as Son Dongwoon does. Kikwang wasn’t even sent to that party for Dongwoon—Kikwang was originally sent there just to advertise at the request of one of the businessmen. He wasn’t even sent there for Son Dongwoon, but for someone who was tricked into a first time service, Dongwoon didn’t seem all that irritated.

          No—

          He—

          He kind of came and looked Kikwang up just the next day.

          And Kikwang doesn’t mind. It’s more money for him and Dongwoon is young and friendly and funny and those three always add up to a plus in Kikwang’s standards since it’s easier to make that money when those three qualities are checked off. It’s more money for Kikwang, it’s easier money for Kikwang, it’s a more dependent source of money for Kikwang—

          Except—

But why does my foolish heart keep pounding?

          “Yo,” Dongwoon grins, popping his head in just like Hongki did—just like Hongki did, only Dongwoon follows with his entire body seconds after, closing the door behind him. He tosses his briefcase routinely onto a chair, shrugs off his jacket and then jumps onto the bed, landing beside Kikwang and making the mattress bounce so hard that Kikwang almost rolls off the other edge.

          He almost rolls off except Dongwoon catches him with his long arms and holds him tight. “I can’t breathe,” Kikwang says, voice muffled—he can’t see anything either, at least nothing beyond the purple stripes of Dongwoon’s tie.

          “Hyung,” Dongwoon says cheerily, completely disregarding the fact that Kikwang is about to die, “I brought food. Hungry?”

          Kikwang wonders if Dongwoon understands that dead people can’t eat. “I can’t breathe,” he repeats, voice muffled and choked this time around. “Dongwoon-ah, I can’t—”

          Dongwoon lets go.

          Dongwoon lets go, but he doesn’t draw away—lets go but doesn’t draw away because he lets go only to come back and kiss Kikwang. He comes back and rolls on top of Kikwang, rolls their bodies together, arms caging Kikwang up against his chest, hands holding Kikwang’s face, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him and it’s hot and Kikwang reels from the intensity, from the fierceness, from the heat and even though this is his job—even though he always does this—it still takes him a few seconds before he can kiss back.

This hopeless love

          When it’s over, Dongwoon never leaves right away. Lots of Kikwang’s clients do. Some of them don’t. But most of the ones that are businessmen—regardless of position or age—always leave right away. Most of them have girls that they are courting, girls they intend to make their girlfriends but not yet. Most of them have work they need to finish at home. Most of them have parents or siblings they need to spend time with—want to spend time with.

          Dongwoon never leaves right away, but Kikwang knows it’s not because Dongwoon feels anything towards Kikwang—of course he doesn’t, that would make everything terrible, that would compromise Kikwang’s job, that would—that would—

          “Any progress?” Kikwang asks as Dongwoon returns to the bed, with drinks and chocolate bread. The businessman slips beneath the blanket, setting the food on the nightstand.

          “Nah,” Dongwoon shrugs, a sad smile. He tears some of the bread and hands it to Kikwang. “I mean—it’s kind of past that point, y’know? Just working on getting over it.”

          Kikwang chews slowly, watching Dongwoon open the drinks, pour them into plastic cups—watches him work with methodically and calmly, younger than Kikwang but going further in life than Kikwang could ever dream to, could ever hope to. He watches Dongwoon and doesn’t understand why his chest is starting to itch—not the skin or the muscle, just itch. An inner itch.

          “He got together with that guy he liked?” Kikwang says quietly. “With—mm,” he thinks, “with—with Jonghyun?”

          Dongwoon glances. “Yeah,” he says, still that sad smile as he slings one arm casually around Kikwang’s bare shoulders. “They’re together now. It’s good—Kibummie’s happy. It’s fine.”

          It’s not fine. It’s not fine at all. Dongwoon’s not fine at all and Kikwang can tell. In past weeks, Kikwang knew that Dongwoon still had hope—still harbored a hope that Kibum would realize Dongwoon loved him, would realize and would come to him and would forget about Jonghyun. Kikwang knew in the past weeks, Dongwoon was torn between wishing his friend the best and fighting for what he wants. Kikwang knew in the past weeks and now he knows that Dongwoon has to kill all that hope.

          “It’s okay, you know,” Kikwang says hesitantly, in a tiny voice—tiny, because he doesn’t know if he should be saying this. He doesn’t even know if it’s right or close to right or vaguely accurate because what does he know about love? He knows absolutely nothing. “It’s—it’s okay to be—um—sad.” He looks down at his hands.

          Kikwang feels Dongwoon’s arm stiffen around him. He feels Dongwoon’s arm stiffen around him and his heartbeat gives a few sudden thuds of regret—of fear that he’s said something wrong because he shouldn’t have said anything. That’s not his job—and this isn’t his field of expertise—even Hongki’s told him before that he knows nothing about love. Everyone’s told him before. And he knows he doesn’t. Certain people are suited for certain things and in the case of lust, , bodies—Kikwang definitely is.

          Love?

          Not really.

          Kikwang waits for Dongwoon to get irritated—to leave—to toss down the money and start getting ready to go. He waits for—

          “Whoa,” Dongwoon says and Kikwang turns his head so fast that he thinks he hears something crack. The younger man’s eyebrows have gone up into his bangs—messy over his forehead from the . Dongwoon grins. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

          Kikwang blinks. “What?”

          Dongwoon shrugs. “One of my hyungs at the office told me that when someone starts spouting love crap it’s usually because they like someone.”

          Kikwang blinks again—this time accompanied with furrowing eyebrows. “What?”

          The younger man laughs lightly, burying his face into Kikwang’s neck—hair tickling Kikwang’s cheek. “Nothing, hyung. Forget it.” Dongwoon wipes some of the sweat off of Kikwang’s forehead gently with the back of his hand. “And eat up—I brought loads so I’ll leave the rest here for you, ‘kay?”

Hurts my heart so much

          Dongwoon never leaves before he makes sure Kikwang is accounted for—showered and rested and fed and warm and clean and paid. He never leaves until Kikwang is back in his clothes and standing at the doorway to see the younger man off. He never leaves until he kisses Kikwang in that doorway, with the e’s head tipped up to receive the kiss, Dongwoon’s hand lightly gripping Kikwang’s waist, Dongwoon’s tongue doing a light sweep all through Kikwang’s mouth.

          He always leaves Kikwang with more than money—always leaves Kikwang with food, with drinks, sometimes with clothes, sometimes with new products from his company, sometimes with new music that Kikwang’s talked about—always something more than money.

          Dongwoon always leaves Kikwang with a smile—a grin, a flash of white teeth—always leaves Kikwang with his chest in such pain that it’s hard for him to move away from the door after Dongwoon leaves.

Going from day to night

          Kikwang is at the club on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He’s at the club on Tuesdays and Thursdays usually from around six to two in the morning the next day, or whenever he wakes up from his last client of the night. He’s at the club on Tuesdays and Thursdays from six to two. He’s there from six to two but during the rest of the week, the rest of the hours he’s at his apartment. Sometimes he’s at his apartment, sometimes he’s at a dance studio near the club—a rickety old place that he loves too much for words because it’s his.

          It’s his and his and his and his and his and he can’t say that about a lot of things.

          He dances there—dances to music he finds on the internet while he’s waiting in between clients, dances to music Hongki makes for him, dances to music Dongwoon’s given him. He dances and dances and dances until he’s so tired, sweating so hard, breathing so hard, that he forgets who he is, forgets where he is—forgets everything except to move his foot there at that beat and pop here with this sequence and wave his hips there to those notes.

          He dances, and when he gets hungry—thirsty—when his body demands that he stops for at least a while, he stops. He stops and takes a break, sits on the windowsill of the studio and watches the cars zoom by—watches people his age walk down the busy streets of Seoul, heading for college, heading to work, heading to their newfound jobs, their newly met lovers, heading for life and lives and futures.

          Kikwang smiles to himself—a little curve of his full lips—and wonders if Dongwoon’s somewhere down there. He wonders while he drinks water and eats chocolate bread and then he’s up and dancing and the music is playing and the beats are booming and all he sees is himself in the mirror and he forgets all over again.

You’re all I think about

          Sometimes Kikwang’s clients will call him down from the upper rooms and into the club—sometimes it’s because they are the earlier appointments and want to eat dinner with Kikwang beforehand, some of them want to see him dance, some of them want to dance with him, some of them want to drink with him. Sometimes Kikwang’s clients will call him down to the club, but Dongwoon never has. Dongwoon never has so when Hongki pops into Kikwang’s room one Thursday and tells him that his boyfriend wants him downstairs, Kikwang fixes his clothes a little bit, smudges on eyeliner, gives a questioning look at his reflection, kicks Hongki’s legs, and heads down.

          He heads down and searches—a little bit more oblivious than usual at the immediate looks of interest he starts to get from males and females both. He searches through the crowds, through the tables, until he sees a long, familiar arm waving at him—sees that long and familiar arm and an even more familiar face accompanying it.

          He sees Dongwoon and moves through the crowds towards the bar—moves through the crowds and reaches the bar, reaches it and realizes that Dongwoon isn’t alone. Dongwoon isn’t alone—he’s brought people, brought four others, three unfamiliar faces and one that Kikwang is surprised to recognize. He’s surprised to recognize one of the faces and that face seems just as surprised—seems just as surprised but smiles back warmly anyway.

          Kikwang blinks.

          The three unfamiliar faces blink back—they blink back warily and unsure and—and Kikwang knows that look. He knows that look and instantly knows that they know—that they know what he is.

          Dongwoon grabs Kikwang by the waist, by the hands—grabs him, and Dongwoon hops off the stool and twirls Kikwang up onto it—twirls him up, and Kikwang is so surprised he almost makes a sound, almost yells, maybe almost curses. He’s so surprised by the sudden strength, by being lifted so suddenly (so gently—so carefully) and he knows it shows on his face—it shows on the others’ faces, too.

          “Lee Kikwang,” Dongwoon says in a brisk, clear voice. He stands beside the stool he’s just hoisted Kikwang onto and wraps one arm around Kikwang’s waist. “Hyung, these are my hyungs from the office.” He points as he lists, “Yoon Doojoonie-hyung, Yong Junhyung-hyung, Jang Hyunseung-hyung, and Yang Yoseobie-hyung.”

          “Well,” Yoseob says—the familiar face and he grins again at Kikwang knowingly, “technically I’m not from the office.”

          Junhyung snorts. “You might as well be.” Doojoon elbows him, and Kikwang notices that the man’s other arm is around Yoseob’s shoulders.

          Kikwang wonders why they all seem so relaxed—why they seem so nonchalant about their youngest colleague spending great amounts money on something like this. He wonders why none of them are looking at him with concern, with pity, with disgust. He wonders why Dongwoon even brought them here—he wonders why Dongwoon is touching Kikwang in front of them—wonders why Dongwoon is looking at him like that—wonders why—why—is that—why is their pride in Dongwoon’s eyes?

           “Have you eaten yet?” Doojoon asks Kikwang suddenly—suddenly, and Kikwang is surprised. He’s surprised, very surprised, and can’t do anything but blink because this is surprising—they’re talking to him and this is surprising because usually when his clients want to show him off, they show him off as a thing and no one talks to things.

          “I—um—I mean—not,” Kikwang says haltingly, “I’m not hungry. It’s okay.”

          And then he feels a pat on his hip and looks down into Dongwoon’s eyes—Dongwoon’s intent eyes. “You sure, hyung?” he asks, his other arm coming to wrap around the front of Kikwang’s waist—fingers connecting at the corner of Kikwang’s hip. “Big lunch?”

          “Yeah, you’re skinny as ,” Junhyung says, frowning at Kikwang up and down. “Eat some more. You look like one of those freaks like Yoseobie who’s got superman metabolism.”

          Hyunseung—who’s been staring somewhere above Kikwang’s forehead this entire time—suddenly pipes up with. “Do you have green hair?”

          Dongwoon suddenly spits out his drink—spits out the mouthful of alcohol he has and most of it is sprayed all over the bottom edges of Kikwang’s shirt—Kikwang’s, fortunately, black leather shirt. Doojoon almost falls off his stool and Yoseob does fall off his stool and Junhyung’s shoulders are shaking silently. “Um,” Kikwang says, “um, no. No, I think that’s just the club lights. My hair’s—um—black.”

          “Oh,” Hyunseung nods wisely with raised eyebrows. “All right—if you’re sure.”

          Kikwang looks down—means to look down and meet Dongwoon’s eyes, except the younger man’s face has delved deep into Kikwang’s stomach, convulsing violently.

Being so pitiful and silly

          Dongwoon tells Kikwang later on that he wanted Kikwang to meet his hyungs—he wanted Kikwang to finally be able to put faces to the names Dongwoon always mentions in his stories. Dongwoon tells Kikwang that he wanted Kikwang to understand how Doojoon and Yoseob work, why Dongwoon’s missed them so much—wanted Kikwang to understand that even though Junhyung always seems like the bad guy in Dongwoon’s stories with Hyunseung and their issues, he’s actually not. Dongwoon tells Kikwang that he wanted Kikwang to experience Hyunseung’s weirdness firsthand.

          And Kikwang understands. He understands all of that. He tells Dongwoon that he understands and he appreciates it and he thinks they’re all wonderful, loved meeting them (already loves all of them—he wishes he could be part of them). He tells Dongwoon that he understands why Dongwoon wanted Kikwang to meet them—tells Dongwoon this as they lay together in bed later that night, chests still heaving, trying to calm down from the , trying to breathe easier.

          He tells Dongwoon that he understands why Dongwoon wanted Kikwang to meet them, but—but—he asks Dongwoon—

          Why did Dongwoon want them to meet Kikwang?

What should I do?

          Kikwang doesn’t understand why Dongwoon would want them to meet Kikwang because why would he? He doesn’t understand love, but he understands why people want to show off their boyfriends or girlfriends to their closest friends or colleagues. He understands that it’s something to be proud of—having a sweet girlfriend, a funny boyfriend, a pretty girlfriend, a hot boyfriend, a playful girlfriend, a witty boyfriend—it’s something to be proud of, a girlfriend who’s a doctor, a boyfriend who’s a manager, a girlfriend who graduated from this college, a boyfriend who’s attending that university—it’s something to be proud of—

          But Kikwang is none of that.

          It’s nothing to be proud of—

          Coming from that orphanage, being moved to that foster home, running away from that broken school, barely graduating from this high school, being bullied—being harassed, being abused, being ually harassed and ually abused—by those people, by those teachers, by those students, by those foster parents—

          It’s nothing to be proud of.

          Kikwang doesn’t understand, so he asks—he asks Dongwoon.

          He asks.

Heart follows love

          Dongwoon looks surprised.

          He looks surprised, deep eyes blinking. His deep eyes blink once and then twice and his face breaks into a bemused smile—still a little uncertain perhaps at what Kikwang’s trying to get at. He still looks a little confused, but he smiles and wraps his arms tighter around Kikwang—kisses Kikwang gently, softly, hesitantly on the lips and rests his cheek against Kikwang’s chest—over Kikwang’s heart.

          “I don’t know,” Dongwoon says. “You’re my friend. I like you. You’re cool and funny and Doojoon kept saying that anyone who wants to me is probably an ogre, and you saw his eyes fall out of his head, right? He’s got Yoseob-hyung, but even he thinks you’re hot.” He grins up at Kikwang. “I don’t know—do I really need a reason?”

What am I going to do?

          Kikwang sees Dongwoon off as usual—at the doorway with Dongwoon, today, having left Kikwang more music, a few drinks. Kikwang sees Dongwoon off as usual with Dongwoon holding his waist and kissing him more gently and softly than anyone—than any of his clients—than anyone from his past—than anyone, than anyone, than anyone. He sees Dongwoon off as usual and Dongwoon kisses him as usual, but for some reason it’s different—it’s different and Kikwang can feel it. He feels it and he senses it and he sees it when they draw apart and Dongwoon doesn’t leave right away with a smile like he’s supposed to—like he usually does.

          He feels it and senses it and sees it when they draw apart and Dongwoon is still there, still holding Kikwang’s hips and Kikwang’s face and gazing down at him with something that scares Kikwang and excites him and turns the itch into his chest into a full-on kind of pain that sears and burns.

          It scares and excites him and he doesn’t know what makes him do it—he doesn’t know why—but he feels like has to so he does. He feels like he has to ask, so he does. He asks. Kikwang asks about it—brings it up because it scares him that they haven’t talked about it in at least two weeks when they used to talk about it all the time—when it used to be all Dongwoon would talk about to him.

          He asks, “How’s Kibum?”

          Dongwoon is still gazing at him—eyes dazed and a little cloudy. “Who?”

          Kikwang stares. “Kibum,” he repeats, “Ki-bum—Kim Kibum.”

          Dongwoon stares back and then his eyes clear up—they lose the dazed sheen and clear up, snap out of whatever trance they were in. “Oh—oh, yeah—I think he’s doing fine. He went on a trip with Jonghyun-hyung or something,” Dongwoon says and his voice is dismissive—dismissive like there’s something more important than his unrequited love.

Kikwang stares some more—incredulously.

He stares some more—stares incredulously, but Dongwoon doesn’t seem to notice. The younger man doesn’t seem to notice—just leans down and kisses Kikwang again, a swifter, more final concluding kiss and grins. “Be safe driving home, ‘kay? I’ll see you next week.”

Dongwoon walks away then and leaves Kikwang with his heart no longer hurting—it’s no longer hurting, no more pain, no more hints of fissure lines, nothing like that. Or rather, even if it was hurting or beginning to split, Kikwang wouldn’t know.

It’s not even in his own chest anymore.

The day when my pain fades away

          The club’s managers are nice people. They are nice people, nice to Kikwang, nice to Hongki, nice to everyone even though they’re leading illegal businesses. They’re nice, but they have no delusions about reality and the hardships included in that. But they’re still nice and Kikwang is glad—he’s glad that he met them after he ran away because they gave him hope that reality’s hard, but not impossible.

          They’re nice people and they remind Kikwang of an animal shelter. The way they took Kikwang in reminds him of an animal shelter that he remembers visiting—very faintly, with his mother—very, very faintly, so long ago that it’s overshadowed by memories of car crashes and cuts on his forehead and funerals and orphanages and—

          It reminds him of an animal shelter because they took him and Hongki in, took more than just him and Hongki in, they took other people too. Kikwang remembers them even though he hasn’t seem some of them in months—in years—in weeks. He remembers a young, young, young man named Lee Taemin. He remembers a pretty, blank-faced girl named Seo Joohyun. He remembers a beautiful, young Chinese woman—barely any Korean passed through her lips—named Song Qian. He remembers those three the most, but with each of them, he remembers a second person—a second person to each of them.

          With Lee Taemin, he remembers a client—a client Kikwang’s had for himself, too—Kikwang remembers a client, a frequent one, a client named Choi Minho. With Seo Joohyun, Kikwang remembers a young man—a client that Hongki’s had for himself one or two times, a client named Jung Yonghwa. With Song Qian, Kikwang remembers a foreigner, remembers Nichkhun, someone who couldn’t speak Korean as well either, but somehow managed to have nothing lost in translation when speaking to Song Qian. He remembers all of them and how, like in a shelter, they were taken away one by one to new lives—to owners, to caretakers—

          To lovers.

          He remembers, and he’s reminded right now as he watches another caretaker, another owner-to-be, right now as he watches Choi Jonghun helping Hongki pack a last few things into a duffel bag. He’s reminded of it as Hongki throws his arms around Kikwang in a breathtaking hug, telling Kikwang that he’s going to keep calling Kikwang—keep calling until Kikwang’s sick of the other man. Kikwang laughs, meets Jonghun’s eyes and mouths over Hongki’s shoulder—

          Take care of him, okay?

          The way Jonghun smiles in response and takes Hongki’s hand—

          Kikwang doesn’t have any doubts.

Will that day ever come?

          Kikwang’s watched all of them leave one by one. He still has contact with a few of them—like Taemin, and surprisingly he’s made friends with Yonghwa even though he was never close to Joohyun. He talks to Nichkhun sometimes too, even though he wasn’t close to Song Qian either. He remembers all of them, talks to some of them sometimes still, and is glad all of them are doing fine—all of them are doing amazing, are all still together, are all in love and happy.

          He’s glad that Hongki is part of that too now.

          He’s glad.

The moonlight is so beautiful

          “Do you ever want that to happen?” Dongwoon asks quietly one night, while they are lying in bed as always, one night—after Kikwang’s told him about Hongki and why he’s suddenly not in the room beside Kikwang’s anymore. He’s told Dongwoon and told Dongwoon about Choi Jonghun and all the others in the past and how they were taken away from the animal shelter after being healed, after finding owners and caretakers.

          Kikwang listens to the wind blow outside the window. He listens and watches Dongwoon’s profile for a moment—watches the sharp nose, the long eyelashes, the high cheekbones, the deep eyes, the slender lips. He watches and opens his mouth slightly, slowly, thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” Kikwang says. “It doesn’t happen to everybody—not everybody’s—you know—made to be taken away.”

          “What about you?” Dongwoon says, a little impatiently, a little more forcefully, and it sounds like a repeat of the question before—Kikwang doesn’t understand why Dongwoon is so insistent on what Kikwang thinks.

          Kikwang bites his lip and looks up to meet Dongwoon’s eyes—his cheek is against Dongwoon’s bare chest and they are both still . They are both still and warm beneath the covers, no longer sweating, but not quite ready to get dressed. Lately, they’ve been spending longer and longer talking before the and lying down before leaving. “I,” he pauses, looking away, “I mean—I’ve wondered.”

Let me lie down by your side for a moment

          He raises his eyes again, raises them to look at Dongwoon’s face—look at Dongwoon’s eyes, meet his gaze. Kikwang wonders how it got to this—wonders if there’s ever been a case before where the animal can pick its owner—when the animal might want to be adopted more than the owner, when the animal doesn’t care if the owner abuses it or neglects it as long as its adopted by this owner, only this one—

          He wonders.

          He wonders—he always only wonders.

          And maybe he’s always only supposed to.

          “I don’t know,” he says again softly, and reaches up to Dongwoon’s cheek—Kikwang thinks this is his first time being the one to initiate something that’s not during , to be the one touching Dongwoon this gently, this softly, this hesitantly. “But I’ve wondered about it.”

A moment, just a moment.