Dongwoon is the maknae.

          He’s the maknae and when he joins, Yoseob is already part of the group—is already so closely intertwined with Junhyung and Hyunseung that the taxi driver might as well be a worker at the office for all Dongwoon knew when he first started. Doojoon always brings Yoseob on lunch breaks, always arrives with him in the mornings, goes home with him at nights. When Dongwoon joins, Yoseob is already part of all of them—part of their group, part of their family.

          Because Dongwoon joined when Yoseob was already part of them—

          Dongwoon joined not long before Yoseob has to leave.

 

 

 

 

          Dongwoon is the maknae.

          He’s the maknae, and when Yoseob leaves—in a way—it feels like he’s watching his parents get divorced. It’s like he has two sets of parents, and while his biological set can’t file for divorce even if one of them wanted to (you have to be alive to file a divorce), his second set, his set that’s still alive, it feels like they’ve separated. It doesn’t feel like the world’s ending—it doesn’t because Dongwoon is a big boy now and his world isn’t ending, not like the way it was last time when his first set of parents disappeared.

          His world doesn’t feel like it’s ending, but it’s not the greatest time of his life either.

          Doojoon misses Yoseob—constantly, all the time, even when his mind is in work, is trying so hard to be in work, it’s always really somewhere else. It’s always wherever Yoseob is, whether that’s Spain or Thailand or Germany or Japan or Australia or Italy. It’s always somewhere else, and while Doojoon’s mind at least comes back to the office when it really needs to be, Dongwoon knows that Doojoon’s heart hasn’t been in Korea ever since Yoseob’s plane left Seoul.

          Doojoon still loves Yoseob even after Yoseob left him—even after Yoseob chose something else over Doojoon.

         

          Dongwoon thinks there’s something amazing about that—something extraordinary and admirable and honorable about still loving someone even if you can’t be with them—even if they love something else more than you. And in Dongwoon’s case—

          If they love someone else.

 

 

            

You got that smile

 

 

         

“Why not?” Dongwoon asks with a laugh.

          Kibum looks at him like he’s stupid. “Because Jeju is for losers—everyone goes to Jeju.” He walks around the glass table in the middle of Dongwoon’s living room and collapses next to Dongwoon on the sofa, brochures in one hand and bottle of juice in the other. The glass table is scattered with brochures of vacation spots around the world, with magazines of different hotels—there are so many that some of them have even slipped off the table and onto the plush carpet.

          Dongwoon rests his arm on the back edge of the sofa, hovering near Kibum’s shoulders. “Well,” he says , looking at the other man, “where do you want to go, then?”

          The architect raises his eyebrows. “Somewhere romantic.”

          “Jeju’s romantic.”

          “You’re a loser,” Kibum says. “We’re not going to Jeju. I’ll glue my feet to the airport. And that’s if you even manage to get me to the airport.”

          Dongwoon grins. “I have rope,” he offers, “and you’re smaller than me.” Kibum smacks his arm. Dongwoon shoves him in response and then leans down to pick up one of the fallen brochures. “How about this? Doojoonie-hyung and Yoseobie-hyung were just in Spain. It’s not as clichéd as Paris, it’s not Jeju, and they probably had ten-thousand times in this hotel.”

          Kibum stares at him. “You think having ten-thousand times makes it romantic?”

          Dongwoon stares back.

          Kibum opens his mouth—

          Just as a buzzing sound fills the room and Kibum shifts in his seat slightly. He slips his hand into his waist pocket and pulls out his phone, sliding his finger over the screen and putting it against his ear. “What the do you want, hyung, I’m busy,” he snaps into the cell phone with the biggest grin Dongwoon has seen on Kibum’s face yet today.

The businessman wordlessly watches as Kibum stands up to take the call, walking around the glass table that Dongwoon’s seen him walk around and around so many times ever since Dongwoon first bought this apartment—first bought it thinking that someday, it’d be more than just him living here. He watches as Kibum walks around it, and hears, as the architect say into the phone, “Jonghyun-hyung, I found a ing awesome place for us.”

          Dongwoon watches the condensation drip down the sides of the bottle of juice—open and forgotten on the glass table. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. But it’s worth it, he thinks. It’s definitely worth it. It’s worth it as long as Kibum’s smiling like that—Dongwoon knows that the other man has been through a lot and he deserves this, deserves to be happy. It’d be ing terrible if Dongwoon, as his best friend, wished him any different.

 

 

 

 

That only heaven can make

 

 

 

 

          Ever since Hongki left, Dongwoon feels like Kikwang doesn’t smile as often as he normally does—as often as he should. Kikwang still smiles of course—still smiles at Dongwoon, still smiles at the other passing clients, at the club owners, at passing clubbers. He still smiles but Dongwoon feels like less than half of them are real smiles. He feels like even the smiles Kikwang gives him aren’t all real ever since Hongki left and there’s something wrong with that.

          There’s something wrong with Kikwang smiling up at him when Dongwoon walks through the door of Kikwang’s assigned room—there’s something wrong with Kikwang smiling when Dongwoon can tell, can feel, even if he might not know how, he can feel that it’s not real—it’s forced and it’s weak and Dongwoon would rather there be no smile there at all.

 

 

 

I pray to God every day

 

 

 

          “What’s wrong?” Kikwang asks, confused, as Dongwoon closes the door behind himself and takes Kikwang’s hips into his hands—he pulls Kikwang against his body, hands on his waist, but makes no moves backwards to the bed like he always does, like he’s supposed to. He doesn’t push Kikwang back, he doesn’t pull Kikwang backward, he just stands there with their bodies molded into each other and looks down at Kikwang.

          Dongwoon bends his knees a little bit, so that his eyes are level with Kikwang’s—the round, deep eyes—smudged with black eyeliner—blinking back bewildered. “What’s wrong?” he shoots back playfully, edges of his mouth curving upward slightly, tone teasing and lilting and light. He’s trying to make Kikwang’s smile real—he knows he can’t tell Kikwang not to smile when he’s sad, but at the very least, he can make it so that they’re real smiles.

          He knows Kikwang doesn’t have much to smile about—from the very beginning, he’s known that Kikwang has never had much to smile about. But for some reason, somehow, Kikwang does. Kikwang smiles a lot, and they’re beautiful smiles. They’re more sincere and beautiful and grateful than a lot of the smiles Dongwoon’s seen plastered across the faces of business associates he’s had to meet—complete with a trophy wife on one hand and glass of champagne in the other.

The people Dongwoon work with and work for, the people he’s surrounded by, all have everything they ever need, ever want, and could ever want. They are all the top of the top of the top of society, and yet, when they smile at Dongwoon as they shake his hand after closing a deal, or after meeting him, or after concluding a presentation or a meeting, or greeting him at a dinner party—

          Compared to Kikwang’s smiles—

          They’re so fake, so cold, that it turns Dongwoon into ice.

 

 

 

That you keep that smile

 

 

 

          Being orphaned isn’t much to smile about. Neither is being bullied, being ually abused, being harassed, growing up in the lower districts, going to schools where the teachers might as well not even be there, having to fend for yourself, no friends, no siblings, no relatives, escaping that life all on your own, ion—

          None of that is much to smile about.

          But somehow, Kikwang does anyway.

 

 

 

You are my dream

 

 

 

          “For someone even shorter than Yoseob-hyung,” Dongwoon says, warily, as he watches Kikwang scarf down his seventh package of chocolate bread, “you eat a load.” Granted, he knows that packages aren’t really that big, but he distinctly remembers seeing Kikwang eating ice cream cones while Dongwoon was going up and down the halls trying to find the club owners so he can tell them his new credit card number to bill to.

          He’s sitting on the small one-seat sofa near the bathroom door across from Kikwang, who sits on the bed, legs swinging, all up in his usual clothes—tight and clinging to his skin, with zippers and chains all over. “I perform better on a full stomach,” Kikwang says and then does his half-laugh, lips parted in a wide smile, eyes vanishing and this time Dongwoon grins back because it’s a real smile.

          “Hyung, at least let me have some,” Dongwoon says, reaching out his hand. He reaches out his hand, but Kikwang doesn’t give him the bread—he doesn’t give it to him—he stands up and crosses the small space in between them, standing between Dongwoon’s legs and leaning down—

          Lips open against Dongwoon’s, tongue gently pushing warm, soft chocolate into the businessman’s mouth—

           “Sorry,” Kikwang says after the kiss, while Dongwoon is trying not to choke on the bread after the surprise attack (it was an attack, that’s the only thing anyone could ever call it, Dongwoon is lucky to be alive right now). Dongwoon looks up in time to catch Kikwang giving him an apologetic smile, the bread now set aside on the nightstand. He perches lightly on Dongwoon’s lap, leaning back against the younger man. “Sorry I’m making you waste money just watching me eat,” he says and Dongwoon suddenly understands—

          It’s always either per session or per amount of time, and this club happens to have payments by amount of time. And lately, Dongwoon’s been spending more and more time talking than actually—well—the reason that he’s supposed to be here in the first place.

          Kikwang’s hands move up to his own shirt, fingers on his zipper, body leaning in to kiss Dongwoon again—

          “Hyung,” Dongwoon says, one hand wrapping around both of Kikwang’s, taking them gently away from the shirt. He leans away and uses his free arm to hold Kikwang’s waist and pull him back slightly too. “C’mon, you’re too skinny,” he reaches out for the bread and places it back into Kikwang’s lap. “I guess you have to eat loads since you burn everything so fast.”

          Kikwang stares, frozen stiff and Dongwoon can feel it since the other man is on his lap, against his body. “Dongwoon-ah,” he says, sounding utterly puzzled, and his eyes dart to the timer on the table near the door that ticks away the time and the amount of money owed as minutes go by. “You can’t—”

          Dongwoon snakes both arms around Kikwang’s waist, resting his head on the other man’s shoulder. “Eat, hyung,” he says quietly, threading his fingers together at the corner of Kikwang’s hip. “I’m not having with you until you finish every last crumb.”

 

 

 

There’s not a thing I won’t do

 

 

 

          Kibum comes back from his trip with Jonghyun—they ended up spending two weeks in Spain and a few days in France. Kibum comes back from his trip with Jonghyun and Dongwoon picks them up at the airport because Kibum hates taxis and thinks that at the very least, he should have someone stronger than Jonghyun with him when riding one in the case that the taxi driver decides to kidnap them to sell their organs on the black market.

          Dongwoon comes to pick them up, bracing himself for the inevitable pain that always seizes his chest no matter how hard he tries to tell himself that Kibum is happy, Kibum is happy, is happy, is happy, is happy—it’s inevitable, it always rushes his chest, squeezes and contracts even worse when Jonghyun is beside Kibum because Jonghyun is the reason that Kibum is happy, happy, happy without Dongwoon.

          Jonghyun is the one who’s made Kibum spend sleepless nights in Dongwoon’s arms, sleepless nights sometimes filled with tears, sometimes filled with alcohol, sometimes filled with dead, terrible silence—Jonghyun is the one who’s made Kibum go through all of this and yet Jonghyun is the one that ends up happy with Kibum.

          So Dongwoon waits at the arrivals section and braces himself.

          He waits there and braces himself, steels himself up, squares his shoulders, the keys of his car tight in his hand as he watches the gates open up, watches the stream of people start to file out into the airport, carry-on bags in their hands, on their backs, rolling behind them—

          “Yah—Son Dongwoon!”

          Kibum grins at him as he approaches, right behind a young family of four. His eyes are behind sunglasses, skin just slight shades tanner, one hand dragging a suitcase behind him and the other intertwined with Jonghyun’s hand. Jonghyun carries a backpack, his free hand waving warmly at Dongwoon and right about now is when Dongwoon’s heart is supposed to start crumbling before it can pick its pieces back together shoddily after he drops the two off at Jonghyun’s house.

          This is the cue.

          And—

          It—

          Dongwoon’s heart must have missed the cue.

          It clearly missed the cue—and continues to miss every second-chance-cue it gets because Kibum is hugging Dongwoon, is laughing with him, is slapping him on the arms and shoulders, Jonghyun has arms around Kibum’s waist in front of Dongwoon, is talking—friendly and open—with Dongwoon, everything is picture perfect for the couple right before Dongwoon’s eyes and Dongwoon’s heart continues to miss its multiple, obvious cues to shatter like a mirror.

          It’s not shattering, not breaking, not falling apart, not even aching or throbbing or beating just a little bit faster—it’s perfectly calm, happy to see Kibum definitely, but calm, still, beating along steadily, and thus, confusing every bit of understanding Dongwoon had ever previously thought he had with his heart. He doesn’t understand, is bewildered, is utterly puzzled, and he doesn’t understand why it’s not hurting like it should—like it always has.

 

 

 

I’ll give my life up for you

 

 

 

          Dongwoon doesn’t think this is weird, maybe, just a little bit—it just—maybe it doesn’t catch him by surprise, since surprise doesn’t seem like the right word either. He doesn’t really know what word to put to it, just knows that it’s not something that goes unnoticed by all means, something that makes him stop and stare—really, really stare—when he drops by a bakery on a Saturday morning job and finds Kikwang there, too.

          He finds Kikwang waiting in line, right at the end as Dongwoon walks up to join so he can get a quick something to eat before going on—finds Kikwang waiting in line and taps him on the shoulder, wondering if this will make things awkward, not that it isn’t already strange enough to see Kikwang in normal clothes, in regular clothes, in clothes that perhaps he just threw on straight out of bed and walked here to grab breakfast.

          Kikwang spins around, eyes widening for a moment at Dongwoon’s face—eyes behind large, square spectacles that, upon not-so-close inspection are clearly real glasses and not just frames—eyes that rest just below the edge of a plush beanie, eyes that look a little bit tired, puffy from recent sleep, no eyeliner, no eye-shadow, nothing. His eyes widen for a moment, but just a moment—a short moment—and then they smile along with the rest of his face. “Hi-yeom,” he says, brightly, and—

          Okay—

          Dongwoon thinks that his heart is maybe a bit confused—or joined Kibum and Jonghyun in that whole jet lag thing even though Dongwoon has definitely not left Seoul recently. His heart is most likely, probably, must be jet lagged because that’s the only way to explain that it starts beating about seventy-two hours after its multiple cues and when Kibum is nowhere near Dongwoon.

          “’Morning, hyung,” Dongwoon says and thinks this is different—so different—an odd change—odd but welcome—seeing Kikwang in sweats and a t-shirt, in worn sneakers. It’s odd to see Kikwang in something loose and cloth because Dongwoon never realized that out of the dim, beaming lights of the club, out of the small room, out of bed, out of all of that, Dongwoon never realized how small Kikwang actually is—how fragile he actually looks when the leather isn’t clinging to his skin, when the eyeliner isn’t holding his eyes.

          Kikwang’s eyes dart shortly toward the cashier and the moving line, taking a few steps backwards so that they aren’t stagnant while they talk. His hands are in his pockets and he shrugs his shoulders sheepishly. “Sorry, Dongwoon-ah,” he brings one of his hands out and wraps it around himself, gripping his other arm. “First I waste your time making you watch me eat, and now you have to see me all,” he wrinkles his nose, “I don’t know—uny? That’s a word, I think.”

          His tone is playful, Dongwoon can hear that. His expression is playful, too, teasingly apologizing, and Dongwoon can see that—he can see and hear that, understands that, but for some reason that doesn’t sit well with him. Kikwang suggesting that he looks anything but beautiful all the time, that he looks unappealing or unattractive or—just—Dongwoon doesn’t like hearing things like that, even when Kikwang is just joking. He doesn’t like hearing things like that when he hasn’t had a chance to make absolutely sure that Kikwang knows how perfect he always is.

          Dongwoon smiles back and nudges the other man with the back of his hand. “Are you kidding me? Hyung, you look so hot right now, we should just go to the bathroom and bone.”

          Kikwang laughs, white teeth flashing and eyes disappearing behind his glasses. He laughs so openly, so brightly, that Dongwoon has to touch him lightly on the back to get him to keep moving up as the line shortens. And while Dongwoon is sure that if that was he himself keeping the line frozen, the customers behind him would have started glowering, but because it’s Kikwang, even if Dongwoon has never been out like this with him before, it’s not surprising that the small groups of female joggers, ahjummas, and shoppers behind them don’t look very irritated at all.

          Instead, they kind of look like they wouldn’t mind if Kikwang laughed like that again a few more times.

          Dongwoon can’t blame them.

 

 

 

 

          Kikwang buys a danish. Dongwoon buys a scone.

          They carry their food outside, walking down the sidewalk with the spring breeze blowing around them, cars upon cars zooming by even on a lazy, early Saturday because this is Seoul—never sleeping, never resting. They walk down the sidewalk and it strikes Dongwoon that he doesn’t know where Kikwang is headed, where Kikwang just came from, whether or not Kikwang even wants to be walking with Dongwoon—strikes him that something as natural as taking the other man’s hand is out of limits because all of that is something Dongwoon pays Kikwang to do.

          Whether or not Kikwang actually likes any of it is another thing entirely.

          But they keep walking along, Dongwoon keeps walking along, because Kikwang doesn’t seem to be thinking of any way to object out of this—doesn’t look like he’s in any particular hurry to get out of Dongwoon’s company. He’s just wordless beside Dongwoon, eyes blinking at the windows of stores and restaurants they pass by, cheeks full with his breakfast.

          Dongwoon’s throat is so dry that he if he tries to eat his scone, he’ll probably choke.

          “Where’re you going?” Kikwang asks then, and Dongwoon is glad that he himself isn’t the one that has to start the conversation because his voice has decided to rebel just like his heart, missing cues and disappearing. Dongwoon thinks his entire body has decided to do an early April Fool’s on him.

          “I was just jogging,” Dongwoon says, gesturing in the vague direction of his apartment. “I usually stop by wherever to get something to eat on the way back.”

          “You live near where you work, right?” Kikwang’s eyes followed the way that Dongwoon pointed.

          The younger man nods, and wonders where they’re going to end up as they keep walking aimlessly like this. “How about you?”

          Kikwang smiles, “Just hungry,” and he dusts off his hands, tossing the small paper bag that the danish came in into a nearby trashcan.

          “You’re always hungry, hyung,” Dongwoon smiles back, rolling his eyes.

 

 

 

 

          They continue to walk, talking about this, talking about that—about Dongwoon’s workload that’s due on Monday, about different kinds of sweatpants, about Kikwang’s contacts when he’s with clients and how he likes wearing glasses the rest of the time because he’s too lazy to put contacts on otherwise, about how Kikwang prefers weights to jogging, about how Dongwoon wants a new table in his bedroom—

          They talk about this and they talk about that, and Dongwoon doesn’t realize where they’re walking until Kikwang finally stops—stops walking, and Dongwoon looks around and finds that they are in a familiar part of Seoul. It’s a little bit ways out from downtown, but it’s near the bimbimbap restaurant Doojoon and Junhyung used to bring Dongwoon out back when they were all still together. It’s in the part of Seoul where everything is antique and quaint and traditional and charming because it’s old and peeling.

          “You live here?” Dongwoon asks, unable to stare at the menu posted outside the restaurant because dry throat or not, he ended up scarfing down his scone half an hour ago.

          Kikwang pulls at Dongwoon’s sleeve and laughs. “Nah—I just eat here sometimes—the owners like me. C’mon, Dongwoon-ah, stop being so hungry all the time,” he teases, laughing, and tugs at Dongwoon’s sleeve again, lightly bringing him down the street a little bit further to a similar apartment building, old and peeling and charming just because of it.

          “Here, hyung?” Dongwoon tries again, and is sure this is it because Kikwang is pulling out keys as they go in through the door. Kikwang just moves his eyebrows up and down, and leads him through the empty, rickety lobby of the apartment, and into the elevator. The elevator is rickety too, obviously old like everything else, and Dongwoon starts fearing for his life just slightly when he begins to hear creaks.

          Kikwang presses a floor and when he retracts, Dongwoon sees that it’s the twenty-first floor and the entire building only has twenty-two floors. Which means that they are going to be in this elevator-death-trap ascending through practically the entire building. Which means that Dongwoon might not live. Which means that there is that pending risk of death that he always feels when driving with Hyunseung.

          “You live really high up,” Dongwoon says as they finally pass the nineteenth floor.

          “It’s because the studio is on the top floor,” Kikwang says and Dongwoon gives him a confused look. Kikwang laughs, “Don’t worry—I’ll show you.”

 

 

‘Cause you are my dream

 

 

 

          Kikwang’s apartment is at the end of the hallway—a bathroom, two bedrooms, a living room that connects to a small kitchen. It’s a little messy here, a little messy there, but mostly clean—nothing quite out of the ordinary or remarkable. It looks like any apartment room of a young adult living alone, TV, laptop, and so on. It’s a bit nicer than perhaps the average young adult, which doesn’t surprise Dongwoon because regardless of the exterior of the apartment, Kikwang probably makes as much as Dongwoon if not more.

          They don’t stay in the apartment long, because Kikwang has barely let Dongwoon stay a minute in the living room before he’s already telling the younger man to put his shoes back on again because they’re going up another level—they’re going to the top floor because that’s where the studio is, that’s what Kikwang really wants to show Dongwoon, and Dongwoon is yanked out of the door and shoved back into the elevator with his sneakers still untied.

          He wonders what the studio is, while the elevator moves upward, wonders if Kikwang is an artist, maybe a painter or a sculptor, or if he’s just someone like Junhyung who likes to make music in his spare time, or maybe Kikwang actually has another job and the studio is his workplace—

          “Over here,” Kikwang says when they step out of the elevator. The hallway is narrower here, a little dingier and dimmer, flickering lights and worn out walls, peeling white paint—there aren’t as many doors, and it hardly looks like anyone lives on this floor. Kikwang takes Dongwoon’s sleeve again, pulling him down the hall, turning this way and that.

          Kikwang leads him, pulls him, winding around and down and up narrow, dim corridors until they reach a door in the middle of the farthest, dimmest, narrowest hallway yet—so narrow that they can’t stand side-by-side or one behind the other because there’s only room for one person at a time. Dongwoon waits, silently, as Kikwang unlocks the door and pushes it open, walking in and this time, he doesn’t pull Dongwoon by the sleeve.

          He takes Dongwoon by the hand.

          Kikwang takes him by the hand—he slides his hand into Dongwoon’s carefully, like he’s unsure of how this is supposed to work, like he’s never held anyone’s hand before—he does it carefully, fingers threading hesitantly with Dongwoon’s and when their hands are joined, he looks up at the younger man and smiles nervously in a way that makes Dongwoon think that Kikwang really hasn’t held hands with anyone before.

          He knows it can’t be true—knows that of course clients will hold Kikwang’s hands while they have with him, a natural sort of action that just happens, right against the mattress or the pillows—he knows that of course Kikwang’s held hands before, but the way Kikwang looks at Dongwoon just—it makes—it—

          It makes Dongwoon wish that this is the first time Kikwang’s held anyone’s hand.

 

 

 

 

And baby, everything that I have is yours

 

 

 

 

          Dongwoon doesn’t even want to step forward.

          He doesn’t want to step forward, doesn’t think he should step forward, doesn’t know if he can bring himself to step forward. The studio—a dance studio, clearly after the door is opened—is spotless. It’s vast, with lightwood and mirrored walls and thin beams like a ballet studio on one side. There’s a small, simple, basic sound system in the corner, a few water bottles neatly arranged in another and it’s all spotless—perfect, and Dongwoon feels like he can’t even leave a footprint on something that feels so intimate.

          Because Kikwang has clearly spent a lot of time in here—a lot of effort maintaining a studio this large and old all by himself. It’s large and old, but it must have taken him a lot of effort to continue keeping it so clean and solid.

          Kikwang clearly loves this place—clearly loves to dance, if that’s what this studio is really for, and Dongwoon doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know what he’s doing intruding on something so close, so near and dear to Kikwang, he doesn’t know what he’s doing walking in on something like this when, at the very most, Dongwoon can only call Kikwang a friend. He can only call Kikwang a friend, and before, he only ever wanted to call Kikwang a friend—that was enough, that was fine, that was well and good—

          He doesn’t know when he started wanting more.

          The door swings shut behind him. Dongwoon takes just a step forward, just enough so that Kikwang can step around him. “You dance?” Dongwoon asks, as Kikwang jogs out, twirling and spinning with his arms outstretched, to the middle of the floor—he plops down with his legs folded Indian-style and looks back at the younger man.

          “They always liked to do it to me during lunches and recess,” Kikwang says, his smile tiny and odd and fragile, as he suddenly turns his eyes downward. “So I hid out in this one teacher’s classroom and he taught me some stuff. And, I don’t know,” he glances to the side, to the mirror—to their reflections, the reflection of Kikwang sitting alone in the vast room and Dongwoon to the side, standing against the doorway. “It helped. It makes me forget.”

          Dongwoon doesn’t respond.

          He pads forward wordlessly, slowly, a little pause after each step—little pauses because he’s still contemplating, still thinking this through, still wondering if what he’s about to do will even be appropriate, even be within boundaries of what’s all right. He pads forward wordlessly until he’s standing over Kikwang, with those round eyes looking up at him questioningly. Dongwoon kneels down, sliding behind Kikwang until his knees are nudging into the base of Kikwang’s back, and he thinks that whatever his heart didn’t do for Kibum at the airport, it’s doing all that and more—

          So much more—

          More than it’s done for Kibum ever and ever and—

          In the mirror, he’s right behind Kikwang—both of them are facing their reflections.

          Dongwoon lowers himself a little bit more, leans in, his chin hovering above Kikwang’s shoulder, palms flat against the floor. He looks at Kikwang’s eyes in the mirror. “Can I touch you?”

          Kikwang’s head is steady, still facing straight ahead towards the mirror—his head, his body is steady, but his gaze shakes, trembles, and Dongwoon sees that. He sees that, but then he sees Kikwang nod—shortly, just once, a small dip of his head. Dongwoon moves slowly—moves slowly and carefully, because it feels entirely different, feels new, feels odd and raw and vulnerable to be doing this without knowing that he’s paying Kikwang—it makes him feel vulnerable and nervous in terrible and wonderful ways because Kikwang could refuse and it would hurt.

          But because he can refuse, he can also say yes—like he did just now—he could also agree, he could say yes, and that makes Dongwoon’s heart leap into his throat.

          Dongwoon sits down on the floor, stretching his legs out and up so that they fence Kikwang’s sides—he slips his arms around Kikwang’s waist, lightly and loosely so the other man isn’t uncomfortable—not uncomfortable but secure enough to hold Kikwang to Dongwoon’s body, to feel Kikwang’s back against Dongwoon’s chest.

          In the mirror, they look like a couple.

          It looks like a position Dongwoon might find Doojoon and Yoseob in when he walks in without knocking because he needs to drop off papers. It looks like a position Dongwoon might see Jonghyun and Kibum in when he’s over at Kibum’s house. It looks like a position Dongwoon used to see his mother and father in before they had to disappear.

          Dongwoon rests his chin on Kikwang’s shoulder, heads leaning in on each other. “Hyung,” Dongwoon says quietly, “why did you let me see all this?”

          “You have cool hyungs,” Kikwang says after a small pause. Dongwoon watches the play of emotions in the reflection. Kikwang’s eyes are thoughtful, liquid and shining brightly—a little nervous, a little hesitant and unsure. “You work in this huge building and you always have funny stories—you have some sad stories, too. You go to all these bakeries where the ahjummas who run them keep giving you extra food because they like you. You don’t know what to do when Kibum and Jonghyun are around because it hurts you.”

          Dongwoon is confused—it shows on his face in the mirror.

          Kikwang smiles softly, a tiny smile—barely there. “I don’t have any of that,” he says, turning his head suddenly so that they aren’t looking at each other through the mirror anymore. “But I thought—I don’t know—maybe you’d want to see what I do have anyway.”

          He’s so close—he’s so close, just mere moments away, and Dongwoon wants to kiss him—it’d be so easy. It would be so easy just to lean forward, not even three inches—just a little bit forward and their lips would meet. It would be so easy, but Dongwoon knows that he shouldn’t. He can’t. Not only is he not Kikwang’s client right now, but he doesn’t want to kiss Kikwang when Kikwang is showing him all of this. Dongwoon knows that everyone in Kikwang’s life always wants to kiss him, to hold him, to have with him, to touch him, to be touched by him—

          Dongwoon wants to be different—he doesn’t want to be everyone—

          He doesn’t understand how anyone could only want Kikwang for his body.

          Not when there’s something this amazing underneath it.

          “I do,” Dongwoon says, offering a smile back. “I like seeing all of it—it’s awesome.” He shakes Kikwang a little in his arms, and the other man laughs. “But if you don’t dance for me sometime soon, hyung, I’m not buying you anymore chocolate bread.”

          Kikwang grins. “Today?”

          “Definitely today,” Dongwoon says, playfully firm. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

          “Okay, okay,” Kikwang laughs. He laughs, but just as abruptly as these smiles and laughs come, they fade and Kikwang is gazing dazedly downward again. His eyes are cast down and his voice is absolutely tiny, soft and small, when he says, “Can you—can you wait for a few minutes on that, Dongwoon-ah?” He glances back up to meet Dongwoon’s eyes.

          The younger man feels his eyebrows furrowing as he gazes back.

          “I just,” and Kikwang is staring at Dongwoon’s arms—staring at Dongwoon’s arms, wrapped around him securely and firmly, staring at how Dongwoon’s body surrounds him, at how Dongwoon’s fingers are locked in place against his hip. “Can we stay like this for a few more minutes?” he asks in a whisper. “Just—don’t let go of me—just a few minutes.”

          A few minutes?

          Forever?

          Dongwoon tightens his arms around Kikwang and leans his cheek against the soft knit material of Kikwang’s beanie. “A few more minutes,” he repeats quietly.

          He doesn’t remember his heart ever hurting like this with Kibum.

 

 

 

Doojoon and Yoseob come back from a business trip in Los Angeles the next week. It’s the first time they’re returning to Seoul after Yoseob joined the company as Doojoon’s translator, and the first time Dongwoon gets to talk to either of them in persona after he introduced Kikwang to them at the club. They both had to leave right away to smooth out Yoseob being hired—had to fly around quite a bit trying to find Doojoon’s father so he could meet Yoseob himself.

          It’s the first time they’ve come back since then, and Dongwoon is almost nervous—feels more than ever like he should’ve done something about Junhyung and Hyunseung because there’s no denying how Doojoon and Yoseob exchange glances when Junhyung comes to greet them. There’s no denying the looks of resignation on Doojoon and Yoseob’s faces when Junhyung comes to greet them, looking thoroughly gaunt and tired and worn out because it confirms everything Dongwoon’s told them through messages and calls.

          Dongwoon should’ve done something—he should’ve talked to Hyunseung more, should’ve talked to Junhyung more, should’ve bridged them together. He should’ve done what he couldn’t do when Yoseob left. He should’ve done what he couldn’t do when Kibum left for Jonghyun. He should’ve done what he couldn’t do when his parents disappeared. He should’ve done something—anything.

          Everyone is always leaving—always vanishing.

          Even Doojoon and Yoseob are gone most of the time. And knowing Junhyung, now that Hyunseung is gone, he might want to move out too—might want to get himself stationed at one of the company’s other locations. Everyone is always leaving Dongwoon, always vanishing from his life in one way or another—everyone is always leaving him and he’s terrified that one day, there’ll be no one left next to him.

 

 

 

I’ll be there when you’re insecure

 

 

 

          It’s Friday.

          It’s not a Tuesday and it’s not a Thursday.

          It’s a Friday.

          It’s Friday and Dongwoon feels like everything is crashing down on him. Doojoon is holed up in his office late after the meetings end, calling Hyunseung again and again in between calling his father to ask for where Hyunseung was relocated to, while also having to keep up with the calls from other businesses wanting to talk to Doojoon after hearing about his temporary return to Seoul. Yoseob is in Junhyung’s office, and Hyuna tells Dongwoon that the door is locked—it’s locked but the walls aren’t soundproof and the sounds of the shouting match leak through crystal clear.

          Dongwoon doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do—he knows that he should do something, should help, should do anything or else they’ll all leave him and he’ll be alone again. He doesn’t know what to do, knows he can’t do anything right now because there’s nothing to do anyway—Doojoon’s working on Hyunseung and Yoseob is working on Junhyung and Dongwoon is just alone. He can’t do anything because it’s not in his place—he’s the last to join, always is the last to join, and he’s the maknae. There’s nothing he can do to help his hyungs and it hurts.

          It hurts, and he needs someone.

          He needs to talk, needs silence, needs peace, needs comfort—he needs someone, just someone, and he can’t even go to that someone because it’s not Tuesday and it’s not Thursday.

          It’s not Tuesday or Thursday—

          Dongwoon’s mind whirrs.

          His memory spins—backtracks.

          He grabs his car keys and his briefcase, hugs Hyuna goodbye (and good luck), and heads for the elevator.

 

 

 

‘Cause you are

 

 

 

          Dongwoon stands in front of the studio door.

          He’s already checked the apartment, and there was no answer. His only hope now is that Kikwang hasn’t gone out—that Kikwang’s dancing at this very moment on the other side of the door. He also has to hope that Kikwang isn’t going to think that Dongwoon is a stalker or a creeper or someone who should have the police called on him upon first sight—because, really, even Dongwoon is creeped out by the fact that he remembers every detail of how to get back to his place.

          He knocks—two times, knuckles rapping briskly against the wood.

          He waits.

          It’s a few seconds, a few moments, before Dongwoon hears footsteps and a few more moments before those footsteps approach the door.

          “Dongwoon-ah?”

          Kikwang isn’t wearing his glasses—he isn’t wearing a beanie either.

          He is, however, wearing a white wifebeater—soaked with perspiration—and loose, basketball shorts. Kikwang’s hair is matted with sweat to his forehead, rivulets of perspiration dripping down the sides of his face and throat. He’s breathing hard, and his eyes are blinking in surprise up at Dongwoon.

          “Hi, hyung,” Dongwoon says, hands in his pockets nervously.

          “Oh—um, hi,” Kikwang replies, and opens the door wider, stepping to the side to let Dongwoon in.

          At the very least, Dongwoon knows he isn’t about to be arrested. He walks in and sits down in the middle of the floor, just like they did that one Saturday morning. He sits down, legs bent and parted with his elbows resting on his knees as he watches Kikwang close the door and walk over to him. The other man sits down in front of Dongwoon, looking back at him confusedly. He’s gazing at Dongwoon, eyes starting to narrow in concentration and Dongwoon notices with a weak smile. “What?” he asks and tries to erase as much weariness from his voice as he can.

          Kikwang’s eyebrows gather, and his mouth sets into a frown. He gets onto his knees suddenly, pulling himself between Dongwoon’s legs, one hand reaching up and cupping Dongwoon’s face—thumb brushing just beneath Dongwoon’s eye. “Trouble sleeping?”

          Dongwoon’s face breaks into a humorless smile. “Hyung,” he says, taking Kikwang’s hand away from the younger man’s face and holding onto it tightly. “I’m about to be a really whiny maknae—you up for it?”

          Kikwang smiles and Dongwoon feels the hand inside of his move around so that their fingers are intertwined. “I’m all ears.”

 

 

 

 

The only thing that I got right now

 

 

 

 

          “No one knows where he is?” Kikwang asks quietly.

          Dongwoon stares at their conjoined hands. “We don’t think so,” he says. “I mean—his sister probably knows where he is, but we’ve never met her so none of us really want to upset him any more by looking for her and asking. I’m sure his sister’s still in Seoul, but we think that he’s gone to Japan.”

          Kikwang bites his lip, nodding, eyes focused and worried. “He’s not answering your calls or—”

          “Nothing,” Dongwoon says. “Doojoon-hyung’s been trying all day yesterday and he’s trying all day today. And Yoseob-hyung just keeps trying to get what happened out of Junhyung-hyung. He’s trying to make Junhyung-hyung stop or tell his family or something, but that’s never going to happen and—I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s right to make Junhyung-hyung tell his family. It’s not our secret. It’s just—Hyunseung-hyung—and—I don’t know.”

          “Oh,” Kikwang whispers. He’s still sitting between Dongwoon’s legs, facing the younger man, their hands still hold onto each other. “Sorry,” he says then, looking up with a tiny smile, “I’m a crappy pillow to cry on. I don’t know what else to say.”

          Dongwoon smiles back and shakes his head. “You’re crazy, hyung. I just ed to you about my life and you’re the one apologizing.” Dongwoon wants to continue—wants to say that Kikwang should be irritated, should be annoyed, should be pissed off that Dongwoon comes with his measly problems when Kikwang has been through so much more.

          Kikwang’s expression tightens slightly, saddens slightly. “Your hyungs are awesome,” he says quietly. “If I were you, I’d be terrified of losing them, too.”

          “They’re your hyungs, too,” Dongwoon says, blinking.

          Kikwang’s head snaps up, eyes stretched with surprise.

          Dongwoon blinks again, confused now because he doesn’t understand why Kikwang looks so shocked—doesn’t understand why this is something new to Kikwang because of course they’re Kikwang’s hyungs too. Before Hyunseung left, Dongwoon had to endure multiple questioning sessions about whether he’s making sure Kikwang’s eating enough, had to endure from Junhyung whether or not Kikwang is doing well—is getting sick or staying healthy. And now that Doojoon and Yoseob are back, Dongwoon thinks that he’ll probably get a lot more of that, probably even some more requests to meet with Kikwang again.

          “They ask about you all the time,” Dongwoon goes on. He grins a little. “I’m starting to think that they like you more than me.”

          “They’ve only met me once,” Kikwang says in disbelief. He still looks surprised, a little incredulous, but behind all that, Dongwoon can see glimmers of something that looks like hope in Kikwang’s eyes—that might even look like relief, like gratefulness, like happiness.

          Dongwoon shrugs. “They’re my hyungs,” he says. “Whoever I like, they like.”

          Kikwang stares.

          Stares—

          And then breathes into a smile. “They like you?”

          Dongwoon punches his shoulder.

 

 

 

 

We’re made for one another

 

 

 

 

          Before Dongwoon leaves, they give each other their phone numbers.

 

 

 

 

Me and you

 

 

 

 

          Dongwoon knows that there’s something wrong.

          He knows, he can tell, he can feel that there’s something wrong when he opens the door to Kikwang’s room nearly a week later, on the next Thursday, and Kikwang is still lying in bed—still disheveled beneath the sheets, motionless, , and doesn’t even move when Dongwoon makes the loud sound of closing and locking the door behind himself.

          Kikwang is always dressed and perfect whenever Dongwoon arrives—he’s always dressed and perfect whenever Dongwoon leaves. It’s like a rule—like a courtesy, Kikwang’s told him once before, not to leave any traces of the client before. There’s always half an hour before and after every client so their breathing will return to normal, so the adrenaline will calm down, so they’ll stop sweating, so they’ll be able to put away thoughts of what that client likes in the back of their minds and prepare themselves for the next one.

          To find Kikwang like this—

          It means something’s wrong.

          Something is really, really, very wrong.

          “Hyung,” Dongwoon says in a low voice, hesitantly. He walks to the side of the bed, kneeling on the floor, hands gripping the edge of the mattress, trying to find Kikwang’s face. He leans in and narrows his eyes as Kikwang’s head turns, and it looks like the other man is lying face down on his stomach—Kikwang’s head turns, cheek against the pillow, face toward Dongwoon.

          “Hi-yeom,” Kikwang whispers, smiling weakly.

          It’s never been like this before.

          It’s never happened like this before.

          It’s—

          This—

          Never like this—

          Not when Kibum comes collapsing through Dongwoon’s apartment door, drunk off of his mind, muttering about Jonghyun, choked up to the point of suffocation all about Jonghyun. Not when Kibum throws his arms around Dongwoon, laughing into his ear about something—and Dongwoon has to remind himself that this can never be his. Not when Dongwoon walks into the office one day and finds Doojoon absent because he’s too hungover after seeing Yoseob off at the airport to come to work. Not when Dongwoon goes down to deliver papers to Hyunseung and finds out that the other man’s disappeared.

          Just—

          Maybe once—just once—

          The only time Dongwoon ever remembers his heart hurting this much—the only time Dongwoon ever remembers being unable to breathe, ever remembers forgetting how to inhale and exhale, ever remembers pain that contracts his entire chest until it hurts too much to move—

          The only time Dongwoon ever remembers his heart hurting like this is when he woke up in a hospital bed so many years ago—too many years ago—so long ago, in a hospital bed, nurses asking him if he’s all right, telling him not to pick at the bandages and stitches on his head and arms—

         

 

 

         

          “Dongwoon-ah, I’m sorry.”

 

 

          “They died in the crash, Dongwoon-ah. But your aunt’s here—she’s your guardian now.”

 

 

 

          Dongwoon peels back the sheets, grabbing both of Kikwang’s wrist in his hand and pulling them away because for some reason Kikwang is reluctant—insists on keeping the sheets over him, insists that he gets showered and dressed on his own and that the client just ran a little late, that’s all—Dongwoon just has to wait a few minutes and Kikwang will be ready, just, don’t take down the covers, don’t—

          He peels back the sheets.

          “Dongwoon-ah, you can’t—!” Kikwang yells and Dongwoon doesn’t stand up fast enough—Kikwang sits up, grabbing his arm with both hands and holding him back. Dongwoon tries—he tries to wrench his arm out of Kikwang’s hands because Kikwang doesn’t seem to understand that he’s slowing Dongwoon down—he’s stealing minutes away and while seconds tick by, a mothering bastard out there is getting into a car and driving away before Dongwoon can have a proper chance at turning him inside out and lighting him on fire and maybe dropping him into the Han River on his way home.

          But Kikwang is strong and he holds onto Dongwoon until the younger man stops trying to run out—until Dongwoon feels the anger stop burning in flames, until he feels the fury dims into a smolder and his thoughts reclaim the forefront of his mind. Kikwang’s grip slackens when he seems to have been convinced that Dongwoon isn’t going to make a bolt for the door. The younger man limply falls back to the floor on his knees and stares emptily back at Kikwang. “Why?” he asks and the anger is still crackling in the back of his throat, itching and demanding. “Why can’t I?”

          Kikwang bites his lip, looking down.

          Dongwoon fists the mattress near Kikwang’s legs, grabs a bit of the sheets and pulls up. “You were bleeding,” he says and doesn’t understand why this person isn’t dead on the streets of Seoul already.

          “It happens all the time,” Kikwang whispers.

          “All the—”

          “I mean, sometimes,” Kikwang says quickly. “Sometimes,” he says. “Sometimes—people—sometimes people don’t just want to feel good. Sometimes they’re upset or angry.” He looks away again. “He probably didn’t mean to hurt me. He was just upset—he was drunk.”

         

 

 

And I have no fear

 

 

          Dongwoon puts one knee on the edge of the mattress, one foot still on the floor. He takes Kikwang’s face in both of his hands, fingers pressing lightly into the back of Kikwang’s neck. Dongwoon leans in until their foreheads touch—until their foreheads touch, but not their lips. He doesn’t kiss Kikwang. “I’m taking you home, hyung,” he whispers. “Right now. I don’t care if I have to drag you—you’re going home.”

          Kikwang’s expression is tight—is tense. Dongwoon draws back and Kikwang wordlessly gets out of bed, swinging his legs over and placing his feet on the floor one-by-one, experimentally. The younger man doesn’t miss the way Kikwang winces and looks down quickly so Dongwoon won’t see.

          While Kikwang is in the bathroom and the shower is running, Dongwoon crosses over to where the timer sits. He takes out his wallet, takes out his credit card, presses the UP arrow until the numbers won’t go any higher, and then slides his credit card down the slot.

 

 

 

I know we’ll make it through

 

 

 

          The car ride to Kikwang’s apartment is wordless.

          Their farewell for the night is wordless, too.

 

 

 

One day

 

 

 

From:Kikwang-hyung

To:Son Dongwoon

Sent:20:34

If ur not busy…

Studio? In an hour?

 

 

 

 

 

When the sky is falling

 

 

 

          The studio is empty.

          Dongwoon’s phone vibrates in his pocket.

          “Hyung, where are you?”

          “I saw your call pull in,” Kikwang says and his voice is a little drowned out—Dongwoon can hear wind blowing around him, can hear the sound of cars rushing by, can hear the sounds of Seoul. Kikwang is outside somewhere. “Are you in the studio?”

          Kikwang sounds better—sounds lighter, sounds brighter, sounds like he might be smiling, wherever he is, and that makes Dongwoon’s heart hurt a little bit less. It makes it hurt a little bit less, which is good—which is great—considering that in the past week that they haven’t seen each other, Junhyung has decided to go off on his own doing who knows what, Hyunseung is relocated but refusing to speak to them, and Doojoon and Yoseob are due to fly off to America again in a few days.

          “Yeah, I’m here,” Dongwoon says. “Where—wait—hyung—how can you see my car?”

          Kikwang laughs—he laughs just for a few short seconds, and in those seconds, Dongwoon’s heart stops hurting completely—stops hurting, feels like it’s new, beats strongly and steadily and Dongwoon almost blurts out asking for Kikwang to laugh again when the other man stops and all of the pain rushes back in. The relief is too good—too perfect. And he’s been hurting for too long.

          “There’s a door near the mirrors,” Kikwang says. “See it?”

          “Yeah,” Dongwoon replies, starting to walk over to it.

          “Open it—there’s some stairs. I’m at the very top.”

 

 

 

Nothing

 

 

 

          The stairs lead to the rooftop.

          The rooftop looks over all of downtown Seoul—Dongwoon can see the office, can see his own apartment, can see the club, can see most of where he spends his life, can see all of it from this rooftop. The sky is dark already and he can barely make out Kikwang’s faint outline, standing at the corner of the railing, leaning back against it and facing Dongwoon.

          Dongwoon walks to him.

 

 

 

Will ever come between us

 

 

 

          They stand there—just like that, they stand there and look at each other, expressions slightly hidden by the darkness, slightly illuminated by the city lights from below. They stand there and Dongwoon slips his hands over Kikwang’s without asking because while Dongwoon still doesn’t know anything—while Kikwang hasn’t told him anything—he thinks that maybe he’s right. He hopes that he’s right. He wonders if he’s right, but there’s a feeling, there’s this feeling and Dongwoon just guesses—takes a chance.

          “You put a lot of money in for me,” Kikwang says quietly as their hands swing in between them.

          Dongwoon shrugs.

          “Why?” Kikwang’s expression is almost afraid—nervous and confused. “We didn’t even have and you put in enough money for twenty-four hours.”

          Dongwoon runs his thumbs over the back of Kikwang’s hands. His heart thuds insistently in his chest—egging him on, encouraging him because it knows that Dongwoon knows that he has to take this chance. It has to take this chance at finally finding relief, at finding some sort of medicine because it’s been hurting too long—it doesn’t want to hurt anymore. “You said,” he begins quietly, “you told me—that one time—you told me that you wondered—about—about being taken away like Hongki-shii and those other people.”

          Kikwang’s eyebrows furrow.

          “But,” Dongwoon breathes in, a little shakily. “You never—you never said if you actually wanted to or not—be taken away, I mean. You just said you thought about it. But you—”

          “What if I said yes?”

          Kikwang’s hands are suddenly holding onto Dongwoon’s with too much force, fingertips digging into Dongwoon’s knuckles, eyes wide, expression torn and sad and on the verge of something—on the verge of hoping maybe, a little desperate, but mostly just sad—terribly sad, terribly tired and worn out, filled with too many emotions to count—if Dongwoon looks closely enough, maybe there’s even happiness, maybe even surprise, but on the surface, the forefront, it’s mostly sadness, mostly disbelief.

 

 

 

‘Cause I’ll be standing

 

 

 

          Dongwoon doesn’t let go of Kikwang’s hands. He just leans in, angling his head slightly, eyes nearly closed. He leans in and stops when he can feel Kikwang’s breath ghosting over his own lips. “I can’t pay you for this one,” he whispers, and feels Kikwang stepping closer, pressing their bodies together, their joined hands at their sides.

          Kikwang is the one who covers the rest of the distance between their mouths. Kikwang is the one who ends up taking his hands out of Dongwoon’s and throwing his arms around the younger man’s neck, kissing him fiercely—kissing him deep and slow, different from when they’re about to have , different from when they’re flirting, different from when they’re saying goodbye for the night, different from when they’re greeting each other for the night—so different and Dongwoon doesn’t think they’ve ever kissed like this before. Dongwoon thinks that this is the first time Kikwang’s kissed him like this—he thinks it’s the first time he himself has kissed anyone like this at all.

          But then again—

          This is the first time he’s loved someone so much.

          And had that someone love him back.

 

 

 

 

Right next to you

 

 

 

 

From: Son Dongwoon

To: Hyunseung-hyung

Sent: 10:02

 

 

We miss u. Come back, hyung.

 

 

 

 

 

You’ve got that smile

 

 

 

          “Why not?” Dongwoon asks with a laugh.

 

 

 

That only Heaven can make

 

 

 

          Kikwang grins and walks around the glass table in the middle of Dongwoon’s living room, purposefully collapsing hard on Dongwoon’s lap. Dongwoon feels the wind, the oxygen, the life, possibly his soul, knocked out of him by the force and is barely able to keep himself upright and wrap his arms around Kikwang’s waist. Kikwang swings his legs over one side of Dongwoon’s lap so he can face the younger man—Kikwang’s back is against the arm of the couch.

          “Because I want to go to L.A.,” Kikwang says, holding his mug of iced tea in both hands. He takes a sip and then offers some to Dongwoon.

          Dongwoon puts one hand lightly over Kikwang’s, guiding the mug to his lips and gulping down a few mouthfuls. “Yeah, I know, but why, hyung?” He playfully brandishes the brochure in Kikwang’s face and the older man laughs. “Isn’t Spain or France ten times more romantic?”

          Kikwang blinks, frowning, his nose wrinkling. “I want to see this dance crew,” he says, as though utterly bewildered at what romance has to do with anything. “They say they’re in L.A. right now doing some battles.”

          “And what am I supposed to do while you’re watching that?” Dongwoon says because he’s pretty sure that this isn’t how a couple-vacation works. He’s pretty sure that from what he’s learned from Doojoon and Yoseob, who are like the embodiment of everything in couple-dom, that these vacations usually involve lots of inside of the hotel and hand-holding-skinship outside of the hotel.

          Kikwang blinks some more, frowning deeper. “I don’t know.”

          Dongwoon raises his eyebrows and snatches Kikwang’s mug out of his hands.

          “Yah!” Kikwang shouts, bewildered by Dongwoon stretching his arm out as far as it can go and holding it out of Kikwang’s reach. “Yah,” Kikwang repeats, but now he’s starting to laugh, “Yah—Son Dongwoon.”

          Dongwoon grins, leaning over and putting the mug down as far as he can on the glass table. He puts down the mug and uses his free hands to spin himself on top of Kikwang, pressing him between Dongwoon and the couch, arms encircling the other man’s body, faces barely apart.

 

 

 

I pray to God every day

 

 

 

          “L.A. has nice beaches,” Dongwoon says as Kikwang reaches up and runs his fingers through the younger man’s hair. He cups Kikwang’s face in one hand, smiling down widely because it’s impossible—it’s always been impossible—it’s impossible not to smile, impossible to stop his mouth from stretching broad across his face whenever Kikwang looks up at him like that, eyes curved into dark crescents, full lips parted and showing white teeth.

          Kikwang laughs under his breath and Dongwoon can feel the small movements shake the body beneath his. “Beach is hot,” Kikwang says playfully.

          “You’re hot,” Dongwoon responds, teasing.

          Kikwang rolls his eyes, but he laughs again. “Flattery’s not going to get you anywhere.”

          Dongwoon shrugs—as best as he can in the position he’s in, anyhow. He leans in and presses his lips against Kikwang’s briefly, pulling back after just one or two short seconds. “Good,” he says. “I’m right where I need to be anyway.”

          “Where’s that?” Kikwang snorts. “On top of me?”

          “Exactly,” Dongwoon grins and Kikwang laughs into the younger man’s neck.

 

 

 

To keep you forever