He sees lumps of stale yellow, mixed with rusty red and ghastly green; all sorts of colours mushed up together in a pile he likes to call his artwork. Sehun believes that home is wherever he can paint his work. Right now, that cosy place of his is behind closed doors with glassy tiles, mirrors a little too clean, and taps a bit too shiny. He enjoys it though, because he is alone. The soft melodies of a saxophone between jazz beats tune through the speakers of a small stereo that hangs in the corner of the room that is excessively spotless.

He is an artist, or so he likes to think. But artists don’t always have to fill the white canvases with sweeps from a paintbrush, or lines that are drawn with the greys of a pencil. They don’t always have to be on paper or flat surfaces because his work is splattered in hollow holes and never presented for anyone to see. Just him. And he knows that if anyone ever catches a glimpse of it, they wouldn’t appreciate it. Of course they wouldn’t, because after all, they weren’t meant to be for anyone but him. Only Sehun could understand them, and that’s all that matters.

Sehun spends a lot of his time thinking about the topic of normalcy. An average human being. A person who has hobbies and dreams, favourite foods and read books in moderation. Normalcy. Average. Moderation. He is not too sure if his actions fit with the norm, but he doesn’t care. Just as long as he is satisfied.

His artwork needn’t any paint or colour pencils. Just food – lots of it – and a back arched over a toilet bowl, fingers curling into themselves and a sour stench that stings the eyes. They say his slender fingers are beautiful and beautiful things create more beautiful pieces. His one involves toothpick bones shoved down into swollen throats, throwing up bile and bloody everything; a variety of fusty lumps, clumped together as a whole. His masterpiece. The sound of his retching intestines add a little more to the music that enshrouds the simple silence.

Sehun smiles as he staggers out of the cubicle and hits the taps with his salivated lean fingers that reeks of acidity. He is drowning himself in the sound of his chef-d’oeuvre washing away against the swirls of flushed agony and the mirror reflects a tear stained face that wasn’t actually crying but a result of gag reflexes and tightening muscles. He chokes up the last few pieces that still lingers in his throat and spits it into the contrasting white sink before gurgling mouthfuls of water to rid the loitering remains. Normalcy, he believes, is only a boundary.

***

He gets casted in the middle of May and credits that his artwork pays off. Now, one year later, after mastering walks, professional stances and stoic looks, his home is usually hidden behind runways, in the backstage restrooms, half an hour before a show. But in this world, his artwork is normal, because in the cubicle beside him, top model, Kim Jongin, is painting his own. Both trying to paint the green of a broccoli they ate for lunch. It’s sad that his illustrations lack diversity now, but he still enjoys it anyways. It’s harder to paint, he points out, considering the little supplies he has stored in his stomach, but its home.

They greet with nothing more than a silent nod and the twitch of curved up lips, too forced between the high cheekbones and powdered skin. After all, they are in the Korean RTW Fall 2012. This is what they do. This is what makes tarnished oesophagus’s admirable.

Sehun learns that normalcy is only a matter of viewpoint and perspectives. A mind game, that has everyone ringing on its fingers, pulling out definitions they believe fit with the average. But during the process the margin between the normality and the isn’t, has been blurred by the overthinking and categorising. He is neither normal nor uncommon; just an artist, craving for perfection.

***

Luhan meets Sehun when he stumbles into the restroom of the Beijing Winter Show. It’s bright and the small chatters and busy rush from outside isn’t enough to cover up the sound of puking over polished floors. Apparently even clinging onto the toilet is a little hard for the chopstick skeleton. Luhan stares frozen and doesn’t know what to make of the situation. These things are common among models and it’s no lie that he’s seen it before, but it’s the fact that he’s never seen it this picturesque.

Sehun is exposed of makeup, little flaws on his skin and Luhan thinks that this person lives a snapshot and even though the encounter is not at its best, he cogitates that Sehun is stunning. It takes three seconds which elongates as long as three hours, for Luhan to comprehend how he’s possibly not supposed to see this. So he smashes the door shut and quickly scurries out of the occupied lavatory.

“Are you okay?” Luhan asks boldly, while he applies the last touches of eye-shadow on the model. It’s his first day working for Sehun, since the official make-up artist took leave because of pregnancy and he has no idea of what he is saying and immediately wonders if it’s too late to take it back.

Dressed in all black with his dyed brown hair gelled into a classic 1920’s look, Sehun keeps his eyes closed even though Luhan has finished. Minutes pass and Luhan decides it’s best to pack his things after receiving no replies. Then he hears a sigh and a soft voice whispering, “Normalcy.”

And Luhan turns around, facing a Sehun that has his lips broken into a smile so genuine it makes Luhan go all euphoric. Maybe it is the crescent moon eyes, or the sparkly white teeth, Luhan doesn’t know, but it makes butterflies flutter wildly in his stomach and for a second he loses his breath. “It’s okay if you don’t want to –”

“The toilet?”

“Yeah that…” Luhan mutters placing himself on the seat beside Sehun, staring at the mirror in front.

“We all do it here. It’s normal.”

“But there was nothing to throw up.”

“Yeah.” Sehun leans back in his chair, eyes heavy again and Luhan assumes that the conversation has been evaded, but the model makes a response many ticks later. “My artwork used to be colourful you know. Now it’s painted with a few tic-tac pills or a chopped up piece of vegetable if I’m ever feeling a little more inspired.”

Luhan stays quiet, because he doesn’t know how to answer, or maybe because there is none. He watches as the rest of the crew flicker around in fussy hazes and subtle murmurs, trying to complete tasks in a set amount of time. Normalcy, he believes, is more than just a definition, but the mere thinking mechanism of a singular person; their experience and everything that lies in between. Normalcy is not normal, but rather just a lie that makes people feel inferior. Normalcy is merely an illusion.

He looks at Sehun and there is the same smile that adorns his lips. This time Luhan realises that it’s never really been honest the first time around. Then again, sometimes perfection causes a deprivation in judgement.

***  

They’re eating lunch together, just before the show. It’s more of Luhan eating and Sehun swirling his cup of crystalline water around in his hands. The spring breeze plays a nestling tingle over Luhan’s skin and he is glad that he didn’t wear a long sleeve that day. The zephyr is nice and cooling as the sky begins to turn into shades of painted pink, orange and yellow. The clouds are holding a promise of a calm and peaceful night and Sehun smiles, because Luhan has picked out the perfect seat.

Sitting fifteen storeys above the ground on a balcony, in a five star restaurant, measuring people with the size of his thumb, Sehun can’t stop himself from feeling the divinity of his position.

“You know Luhan hyung; you have a face that is perfect for the runways.” Sehun speaks as he takes a sip from his cup.

“Thanks, but I’d rather keep my food inside.” And as quickly as Luhan says it, he immediately shoots sincere apologies, one after another, afraid that he might have offended the model. But Luhan stops when he sees the jerk of curled lips emitting a light chuckle that is steady against the chatters of surrounding customers.

“It’s okay hyung. I don’t see why you have to say sorry for speaking the truth.”

Luhan waits for Sehun after the show ends and they drive among the filled road towards Luhan’s apartment. The place probably costs grands; Sehun thinks every time he steps foot into the front entrance. The sun is long gone, and the sky is only a blanket of dark navy showering in white specks, but the air isn’t cold, although if people are as perfect as Sehun then a black French coat over the top of his white sweater is never enough. He takes a seat on the ivory cushions laid out beside the widespread window and stares out at the city sprawled beneath, while Luhan prepares the dinner.

Waiting for the water to boil, Luhan stands at the kitchen bench with eyes tracing invisible lines on Sehun’s sharp jaw. He notices that perfection is a little on the thin side today and even though Luhan has drawn a much more livelier black that underlines the creases of the eyes tipping it with a slight wing, Sehun still looks as wearisome as ever.

And because the artist hasn’t been painting lately, he has also stopped buying paint supplies.

“Sehun, why don’t you eat dinner with me today?”

“I don’t feel like painting.” Sehun replies with a yawn as he slumps himself on the sofa in front of the television, his weight barely making any creaks on the springs. “Luhan, I’ve lost count.” He says nonchalantly as he plays with his box of tic-tacs, gazing at the pills rolling around behind the transparent orange coverage. “How many days has it been?”

“One hundred and nineteen since I’ve met you, thirty-six since you’ve been staying with me and four days since you’ve had proper food instead of just those little lollies of yours.”

“I remember painting every day.” Sehun states a little pitifully, shoving the pills of lollies back into his pocket, treading to their shared room.

Luhan watches Sehun’s retreating body and thinks that normalcy is nothing more than a figure of abandonment. That it holds neither truth or lies but the mere conception of familiarity and loneliness. It is nothing but a label and like Sehun has told him once, it is only a boundary… a barrier.

***

Loneliness is when Sehun is throwing up in the bathroom knowing that no-one is outside waiting to ask him if he’s okay. Loneliness is vomiting a stomach of emptiness into a bowl of cavity, painting a blind picture of pure whiteness. It isn’t home anymore, he acknowledges, and he hates this routine. Luhan arrives late and sprints to the bathroom, avoiding the instructions because it’s not like he understands them most of the time anyways.

“I want to pull off an early 1930s, you know those posh and elegant types, but not too much because I still want the twenty first century touches and then you should blow it up with the intense purified airbrush…”

Luhan spots the model limped on the side with fingers folded on the seat as his whole face is hidden in the bowl; making gasping and croaking noises that wouldn’t be specified as human. The soft piano radiating from the little sound system isn’t enough to calm his nerves but seems to be making Luhan a tiny bit more anxious.

Barely taking steps towards the figure, he somehow remembers Jongin’s words. “Doesn’t matter how many times you tell a model that he’s perfect, he’ll still cling onto the bowls, painting little tic-tac pills and you’ll think it’s a scene for the Gucci shoots…” But Luhan doesn’t want to think like that, because he wants to see a healthy Sehun that blisters a glow of delight, searing the stage with walks of confidence and pride, devoid of the pounds of substances and powder packed onto serene faces.

“I might need help.” Sehun whispers, voice raspy and slightly more than croaky.

“I don’t know if I can, but I’ll be there for you. Always.” Luhan smiles, as he clips the buttons on Sehun’s coat, noticing that Sehun’s skin has artificial lacing through every curve of all the atoms that makes up his body and it’s much yellower than it’s supposed to be.

Normalcy, in their perspective, is nothing more than having each other’s presence and comfort. With both being artists but expressing their artwork in different ways; Luhan painting Sehun’s face as Sehun paints the white hollow holes. Sehun creating perfection while Luhan draws onto it. But this time Sehun no longer likes his artwork and Luhan doesn’t want to paint Sehun’s face anymore, because they both realise that colouring the picture is one thing, loving it is another. Normalcy can be a routine that sometimes has to be broken and occasionally has to be cracked to craft transformation and begin de novo.

***

Its summer in New York and by now Luhan is used to wiping stomach acid off thin chapped lips. They’re baking in sunlight puddles watching reruns of Mickey Mouse cartoons as Luhan has his intake of the American breakfast they serve at the hotel. Luhan enjoys these kinds of days the most because he can see that Sehun isn’t just a walking porcelain but so much more at heart. Half attention on the screen and the other half on the rubik’s cube, Sehun’s stomach grumble in between.

“Why don’t we share my breakfast today?” Luhan suggests as he takes the cube away from the model.

“But I’ve had –”

“Four tic-tacs, a malteser and an olive in the last fifteen hours. Sehun, sometimes I wonder how you even survive. Don’t you miss having proper meals?”

Quietly he nods, “I do hyung, very much. But this is part of my job. This is normalcy. This is what I have to pay to look like perfe—”

“Perfection? Sehun, nobody asked for you to look like a clattering skeleton. Nobody said that perfection meant being able to count your ribs from metres away and have a spine that sticks out of the neck. I don’t believe in normalcy or perfection anymore. Because no-one is either any of it. But what you are is beautiful Sehun. And so much more.”

And for the first time Luhan sees the real Sehun. One that is drowning in misery and tears, not fake widening grins and pearly whites that pretends that everything is okay. Tears that aren’t just made from puking reflexes and a resultant of vomiting unfilled guts. But rather, these are droplets of pure feelings rolling onto bare skin that for a while, the sniffles fill in the silence of implicit baggage.

Sehun doesn’t really know why he’s crying and for minutes Luhan takes the model in his arms, sharp bones poking through morning flesh like hands gripping tightly on a pair of broken chopsticks. The warmth intoxicates Sehun in a sense of serenity and ease, but the tears keep gliding like drops of molten lead, with torrents burning the passage to Luhan’s heart. Maybe it’s because what Luhan says is right or perhaps he’s more than just starving but Sehun believes that it floats around with both excuses.

It’s not easy though; to change so rapidly and they know it's going to take some time. Nevertheless, Sehun is acquiescent to recover and Luhan is willing to help. They are on the path to finding a new definition in the words of perfection and normalcy.

***

With the pat of contrived lights hanging in the air from high ceilings, flouncing it’s radiance onto Sehun’s post-painted face just before the London Chanel 2013 end of year show, Luhan tells him that it's fine to fall back into the routine of being an artist once in a while. Because Luhan knows how difficult it must be for the model and he believes that cussing out imprecations won’t make things any better.

Sometimes Luhan imagines; of Friday mornings with pancake breakfasts drizzled with maple syrup, topped with ripe strawberries, including the accompaniment of a two shot espresso that has more than enough sugar and milk, and everything will be okay because Sehun will also be having the same thing. They will sit together, enjoying the chirping of birds as the grass weaves through the dancing wind and Sehun won’t be struggling with the thoughts of painting clumps he doesn’t enjoy.

But these are only sceneries of his imaginations and when he snaps back into reality as Sehun pokes him on the chest because he’s been zoning out again, he sees how far they still have to go before reaching that point. However he is happy, because Sehun is trying his best to create a new aspiration in life and he is more proud than ever.

They stare at each other for a while before Sehun kisses Luhan lightly on the lips smearing smudges of balm and Luhan can taste the usual tints of orange tic-tacs, but he thinks that it’s sweet. “Let’s go out after this.” Sehun whispers onto Luhan’s lips between soft brushes.

“On a date?” Luhan pulls back with a smirk while wiping away the glossy smears the model left behind.

“Yes. On a date.” And Sehun smiles more brightly than ever and Luhan knows that it’s one of the most sincere smiles the model has ever given. Even though they’ve been on dates before Luhan somehow believes that it will be different and he wonders if he can feel anymore content than now.

***

They are travelling too much; from Antwerp to Paris, Sydney to Rome and Sehun feels like he is trapped somewhere in between. He’s tired of the same walks and talks and the tedious long hours aren’t making it any better. The differing time-zones seems to teach him that there can be more than twenty-four hours in a day. But he’s glad that Luhan is here with him, as they sit on the plane flying to Berlin. Everyone is asleep and even though Sehun is exhausted to the bones, he can’t seem to let his heavy eyelids fall. “I’m losing track of time hyung, what day is it today?”

“Thursday, but when we land it’ll be early Friday morning over there. Photo shoot will happen at night time and on Saturday is back on the runway. Sunday morning we jump on the plane and off we go to Barcelona. ”

“And how long would that flight take?” Sehun asks as his eyes flicker to the window, and he watches as the stars twinkle up so close, he feels as though he can touch them.

Luhan checks on his phone, “The flight? Around two and a half hours.”

There are a few minutes of silence as Sehun rests his head on Luhan’s shoulder and they stay like that for a long while because it’s comfortable and Luhan feels like Sehun is in reach. But Sehun breaks the tranquillity when he curls closer to Luhan, mumbling a quiet “I miss home.”

For a second Luhan thinks that the place Sehun misses is behind closed doors where he used to enjoy messing tiles with half body flopped on the floor and the sound of gurgling mouthfuls of stomach bitterness, stick fingers hooking into damage throats; because truthfully it’s been a week since Sehun has painted and Luhan can’t be happier.

But when he turns his head around to look at the weary model, he notices that Sehun misses home. The one back in Seoul, Korea, and Luhan sees that it’s their apartment that Sehun misses; the one with his little toy pinku pinku tucked underneath white beaters because he couldn’t bring it on the trip. The one where they share weekend snuggles when there isn’t any work and they can’t tell the difference between whose limb is whose, because it’s all just tangled up in a pile of twisted wrapped legs.

Luhan misses it too, and while Sehun slowly starts to fall into a deep slumber, Luhan glances outside and wishes among the stars for a clearer future where they will have their own definition of perfection and normalcy and how everything will be beautiful. He places a soft kiss on the model’s forehead before he, himself, falls asleep also.

***

Three years down the road and Sehun is still an artist and so is Luhan. Sehun still yearns for perfection and Luhan is always in aid. But the thing is, Sehun doesn’t paint hollow holes anymore and neither does Luhan colour the other’s face. Their masterpiece presents in forms of sponge baked goodness, layered with sweetness and optional fruits. Their days are spent laughing in front of oven doors and the only powder that exists is the flour that is sifted in bowls of cracked eggs and maybe cocoa beans if they’re feeling a little more inspired.

Slender fingers are no longer used for retching intestine and tic-tac pills are never in pockets.

In their world, normalcy and perfection is when they see each other smiling every morning as they have breakfast together on the balcony of their apartment – pancakes and two shot espressos with more than enough sugar and milk.

 It was when Sehun realised that his health mattered more than an ideal; when he finally left the studio, not because he forced himself to or he didn’t enjoy the work anymore but because he found something else more important. Normalcy and perfection happened when they both bought a small bakery down the road where they shared little disagreements but more laughter among decorating cakes with clumps of ice frosting.

It is when Sehun smears cake mix on Luhan’s cheeks and kisses him lightly on the lips uttering soft thank yous in the mist of whizzing timers on ovens, because Luhan believes they hold more than just an expression of gratitude.

“Sehun, you’re perfect.”

“The cakes are, but I’m only beautiful.”

Author's note:

Hi guys! So this is my first hunhan fanfic. Please enjoy, upvote, subscribe & comment because it would mean the world :)

Inspired by: Changdictator - Substandard Motels (between broadway and carnegie hall)