“He loaned you his hankie?”  Amber laughs and drops her pen next to a stack of files.  The manila folders are fraying at the edges but the thick yellow paper is still smooth.   

“Yeah, and he even gave me a ride home last week.”

“I know, you already told me.”  She pulls a binder clip off a stack of reports and tosses it into a paper cup of odds and ends next to her phone. 

“Is he always that...friendly?”  That’s not exactly the word Yifan’s looking for.  Wide open?  Emotionally vulnerable?  Unnecessarily generous?  Even when he was still with Sica, he wouldn’t describe their dynamic as one of solidarity.  After so long on his own even a bit of extra attention feels really nice, but also difficult for Yifan to accept.  Especially when he has no idea how to express his embarrassing amounts of gratitude in a way Chanyeol won’t misunderstand. 

“Well, he is a very loyal friend, I’ll say that for him.”  Amber smirks, plucking at the popped tab of her soda can.  “Why, were you hoping you were special?” 

“No,” Yifan scowls, his voice gruff.  “Just curious.”

“Ok, ok, I was only joking,” Amber says, and Yifan swirls the ice in his latte, blinking at the guilty rattle.  He really needs to stop being so defensive around his friends.  “I know you’ve been busy lately, but have you been by the art room to see the pinatas?” 

“Not really.”  Yifan shifts his legs on the edge of her desk where he’s leaning, careful not to knock anything to the floor.  “I mean I’ve been in there to clean, but Chanyeol usually hangs the works in progress in the extra storage closet.”  Yifan has been busy the last couple weeks, cleaning up the grounds with Yixing to get the flower beds frost proofed and the trees mulched.  He hasn’t had much free time during the day to clean up after Baekhyun or study Korean next to the copy machine, which is why he was easily bribed with coffee to keep Amber company while they wait for the milk delivery. 

“Well, you should go check them out before the kids take them home.  Lu Han’s is pretty nifty.” 

“Did he make a pokeball?” Yifan says.  Amber grins as she swallows, her teeth dark with soda. 

“How’d you guess.  Baekhyun’s is a little more original.”  She tugs on the zipper pull of her red down vest.  

“Oh yeah?” 

“Well, it looks more like a tropical bird, but it’s supposed to a puppy’s head that’s on fire.”  Amber giggles, nodding her head to the beat she’s tapping against the desk with her fingers.  Yifan wants to grab her hands to still them, but that might send the wrong message.

“A flaming puppy head?  Gee, that’s not disturbing at all.”  He kicks his heel into the filing drawer and Amber yawns, rolling her shoulders before grabbing another pile of folders from the shelf behind her.   

“It’s not weird for a kid to like explosions and burning things, Yifan.  Didn’t you enjoy knocking over block towers in kindergarten?”

“Yeah, but a puppy?”  Yifan tugs at a wrinkle in his jeans.  He just washed them this weekend but already they’re getting loose at the knees, scrunched around his thighs.  “None of the other kids are so violent.  Aren’t you worried about him?  Like, his development and stuff?”

“Like whether he’s destined to be a JD in ten years?”  Amber snorts and slams her desk drawer shut with a kick from her sneaker.  “Because his aunt picks him up in a beat up car and he likes to rough house with Jongdae.”    

“Well…not to assume things, but he always shows up in dirty clothes that don’t fit and...I don’t know.”  Yifan drops his hands to his lap, cradling his plastic cup between his thighs. 

“I’m glad you notice details,” Amber nods, swiveling her chair to face Yifan.  “Not everyone does.  But you’re right that we can’t just assume things.”  She sighs, twisting the thick band ring on her right thumb.  It has little scratches all over the surface, like one of Yifan’s favorite pendants that he never wears.  “Besides, some people with nice families turn into s and some people with rough backgrounds turn out just fine.”

“I know, I know.”  Yifan slides to his feet with a huff.  His jeans pull uncomfortably where they’re hitched up around his thighs.  “I just wonder sometimes if there’s something more I could be doing to…”  

“To what?”  Amber’s voice is sharp, her ring clicking against the edge of her desk as she drums her fingers.  Yifan doesn’t know how to answer other than his straw back in with a shrug.  “They all need love, Yifan.  Sehun, and Baekhyun, and Jongdae, and Soojung, all of them.”

“Yeah.”  He flicks at his straw til the bubble of air caught near the top slips back into the cup. 

“It’s doing Baekhyun a disservice to treat him any differently, treat him like a self-fulfilling prophecy of doom and juvenile delinquency.”  Amber drains her can and picks up her phone. 

“I guess.”

“The milk truck should be here any minute now.”  She types a quick message and darkens the screen on her phone.  “I just texted Chanyeol to meet you out front.”

“Ok, thanks for the coffee, Ambs.”  Yifan raises his takeout cup with a smile. 

“Anytime dude, anytime!”  She winks and curls up into her desk chair, tucking her sock feet under her hips.  “I’m sure my shredder will throw another tantrum sometime soon.”

Chanyeol meets him on the front steps with a wave and a smile to match the cloudless blue sky.  Yifan waves back, jogging around to the back of the truck as the deliveryman unlatches the double doors of the trailer.  Yifan watches as he unloads the green crates onto Chanyeol’s waiting dollies.  Not the deliveryman, he watches Chanyeol and pull of his lips over white teeth.   

His friend, a loyal friend, Amber said Chanyeol is his friend. 

Yifan can’t stop thinking about it as Chanyeol chatters away, first to the milkman about the weather and cost of dairy products, then to Yifan about Sunny’s new haircut and Key’s winter vacation plans and something about Sehun coming down with the sniffles.  Chanyeol keeps smiling, and Yifan can’t look away because his smile isn’t one of those picture-perfect ones you see on TV ads, cemented in place with too much lip stuff. 

Chanyeol’s smile cracks wider as he turns towards Yifan, softens to a smirk as he ducks his chin to take a breath between stories, curls and puckers and stretches with the rest of his features as he launches into explaining another idea with his whole body, hands punctuating his narration as Yifan parks his dolly to prop open the side door.  

Chanyeol smiles at practically everybody, including the cashiers in convenience stores and old ladies selling chestnuts and jujubes on street corners.  When he smiles at Yifan, though, it’s not just a “isn’t this lovely weather we’re having?” kind of greeting as they pass on the sidewalk. 

When Chanyeol smiles at Yifan, over coffee in the break room, through a mask of papier mache, or while lugging crates of milk down to the homerooms, he’s smiling at a friend with knowing eyes.  It’s the way Henry smiles at him, sparks of mischief escaping through the seams of his eyes when he presses his lips into a smug grin.  It’s also the way Jess used to smile, when Yifan’s tongue tripped over his teeth and he mispronounced something.  Her English would be always better than his, her Korean too, as she liked to remind their friends with innocent teasing in a tone that clung to the grooves of his cuticles. 

By the time they stop their carts at the end of the hall so the homerooms teachers can pick up their crates, Yifan hasn’t said much at all but Chanyeol doesn’t seem to mind.  He walks Yifan back to the front, hands shoved deep in his pockets so his elbow collides with Yifan’s every few steps. 

“Can I come by after lunch?” Yifan asks, picking up his coffee from the display table under the bulletin board where he left it.  “I want to see how the projects are turning out.”

“Hm?”  Chanyeol stops short, tripping on the ragged hem of his jeans.  He’s wearing a baggy pair today.  Yifan’s used to the skinny jeans, but this is not a bad look for him.  “Oh!  You mean the pinatas?”  Yifan nods, twisting his straw around the perforation in the plastic lid. 

“Come on dude, you know you don’t have to ask permission to drop in.”  Chanyeol shakes a finger at him, like he caught Yifan the paint brushes. 

“Yeah, I know.  Just to let you know, though.”

“Cool!  Well, I’ll be expecting you then.”  Chanyeol’s eyes narrow as he winks and Yifan shakes his head, waving him off as he heads down the hall. 

******

“Hey, could you give us a minute?” Chanyeol says as Yifan opens the door.  He’s standing right in front of the doorway, his hand on Baekhyun’s shoulder.  Soojung is sprawled across three chairs at the table, sobbing loudly into the sleeve of her teddy bear hoodie.      

“Sure.”  Yifan turns to leave.  Chanyeol’s last afternoon period is over, but sometimes it takes awhile to get the kids cleaned up and into their next classroom.   

“No,” Baekhyun whines, his hands in Yifan’s pant leg. 

“Chanyeol, do you need me to…?”  Song Qian nods towards the door.  She’s clipping water color portraits onto a clothesline by the sink while Joonmyun tries to coax Sehun out from under the step stool again.  He’s the line leader this week.  Chanyeol shakes his head, pointing at Soojung’s heaving form, and Song Qian nods.   

“Baek, let’s go talk outside,” Chanyeol says, gently pulling his little fists away from Yifan’s leg.  “Just you and me.”

“No!”  Baekhyun wraps both arms around Yifan’s knee and balances his slippered feet on the top of Yifan’s sneaker.  

“Yifan, do you mind if…?”  Chanyeol gives him an apologetic smile, his lips drooping a little at the corners, and Yifan nods.  They hobble down the hall and through the side entrance of the walk in storage closet attached to the art room.  Chanyeol hits the lights and closes the door as the lone light bulb hanging from the low ceiling flickers awake.  It smells like paint.

“Baekhyun,” Chanyeol says, sinking to a crouch.  Baekhyun’s face is still smothered against Yifan’s jeans.  “Baekhyun, you can’t hit Soojung like that.”

“I said I was sorry!”  Baekhyun lets go with one arm and drops his feet to the floor.  Yifan flexes his toes in his shoe.    

“I know, and that’s important, but do you understand why you had to apologize?” 

“No!”  Baekhyun’s eyes are red-rimmed and his nose is crumpled in on itself.  The slivers of his nails cut through Yifan’s jeans into his outer thigh and Yifan has the urge to cradle Baekhyun to his chest and--

“Why did you hit her?”  Chanyeol’s voice is calm, quiet even.  The shirt under his sweater is dark green today, buttons open at the top.  Chanyeol swallows, his throat working as he waits for Baekhyun to answer. 

“‘Cause I was mad!”  Baekhyun stamps his foot and one slipper goes flying.  Chanyeol ignores it, other than to steady him with a gentle touch to his shoulder. 

“That’s not a good reason.”

“Why!”  Baekhyun’s whole body is trembling now, with rage and confusion and unshed tears that contort his face. 

“Hey,” Chanyeol says a little louder, “hey do you remember when Custard bit you?”

“Yeah?”  Baekhyun’s lips part, his forehead creasing in confusion as to what that has to do with this.

“Why did he bite you?”  Baekhyun brings his hand up to his face, leaning into Yifan’s leg as he thumbs the tiny scar on the side of his finger. 

“I pulled his tail?” 

“Uh huh.”  Chanyeol’s eyes widen in agreement.  “And that made him scared and mad, so he bit you as a way to communicate his feelings.”  Baekhyun nods, tentatively following along. 

“He bit me with his feelings.” 

“Right,” Chanyeol says.  “How did you feel when Custard bit you?”

“Bad!” Baekhyun yells.  A fat tear slides across his dry lips.  “Surprised!  That really hurt!”

“Of course it hurt!”  Chanyeol nods emphatically, catching his balance with a palm pressed against the door.  “So how do you think Soojung felt when you punched her?”

“I don’t know!”  Baekhyun drops his gaze and scuffs his sock foot on the scarred tile.  There are dust bunnies caught in the crevices between the storage shelves and file drawers.  Yifan should probably clean in here.   

“Baek,” Chanyeol prompts in a gentle but grave tone.  Baekhyun sighs, his shoulders slumping as he relaxes his death grip on Yifan’s leg. 

“Maybe...surprised and hurt too?”  He lifts his head to blink at Chanyeol.  Chanyeol gives him a soft smile and a slow nod. 

“I think you’re right, Baek.  And I think that’s why you needed to apologize.” 

“Oh,” Baekhyun says slowly.  His lips blink around choked back words and Chanyeol reaches up to ruffle his hair. 

“Hey, come on sport!  Let’s find you a kleenex.”  Baekhyun nods again, his tiny fingers into his damp eyes.  Chanyeol stands to rummage through his shelves for a tissue box and Baekhyun turns to Yifan with a wide eyed stare, his dark eyelashes spiked in little clumps stiff with drying tears. 

Yifan kneels down to give him a reassuring smile and Baekhyun tips forward to bury his face in Yifan’s shirt, rubbing his snotty nose over the pocket.  Yifan slides a tentative hand over Baekhyun’s shoulders.  His breath catches at the tiny sigh Baekhyun releases as the tension in his body whooshes out. 

“Here we go!”  Chanyeol squats next to them, a large box of aloe tissues under his arm.  He pulls out sheet after sheet, replenishing Baekhyun as he scrubs at his blotchy face.  “Ok, now blow,” Chanyeol says, holding one last sheet up to his nose.  Baekhyun shoves his face into the folded tissue and blows the last of his snot and agitation into Chanyeol’s hand.

“Ok buddy, what do you do next?” Chanyeol asks, standing to shoot the crumpled kleenex wad into the trash can by the door. 

“Apologize?”  Baekhyun’s voice is a little shaky, but the angry tightness is gone. 

“No, silly!  You already did,” Chanyeol says, patting his hair. 

“Oh!  Wash!” Baekhyun hollers, pushing through the door into the classroom and dashing to the sink in the back.  The room is empty.  Song Qian must’ve taken the others to music already.  Chanyeol hurries after Baekhyun to spot him as he scrambles up the step stool to reach the faucet over the large basin.  Yifan follows with Baekhyun’s slipper and is ready with a paper towel when he hops down, flinging water as he windmills his thin arms.     

“Wow,” Yifan says as Baekhyun scurries into the music room to join his classmates and the door slams shut behind him. 

“Sorry!” Chanyeol reaches into his pocket for another hankie.  This one is pale yellow with tiny white blossoms bordering the hem, the same size as the chambray blue one folded on Yifan’s dresser.  “Really sorry about your shirt, dude!”  

“No, it’s fine,” Yifan waves him off.  “I’ve got a T-shirt in my bag.”  Chanyeol’s face relaxes, but his smile still has a guilty tinge. 

“Ok.”

“I meant,” Yifan tries again, dropping his gaze to the damp patch on his pant leg, “wow, as in you’ll be a great parent one of these days.”

When he looks up, Chanyeol’s mouth is open in shock, lips moving soundlessly with eyelids frozen in a comical stare. 

“Sorry,” Yifan immediately back pedals.  His damp jeans are uncomfortably tight on his thighs.  “I just--”

“Why are you apologizing?” Chanyeol asks in the same quiet voice he used with Baekhyun.  “That’s a compliment, especially coming from someone as observant as you.”  He tilts his head, his lips meeting in a firm press.  “I just wasn’t expecting to hear that, and I’m not sure I deserve it.”

“But I’m sure.”  Yifan points down the hall to the art room.  The door is open and the light in the storage room is still on.  “Can I see the pinatas now?”

******

The next few weeks are just as busy with midterm evaluations.  The lower grades don’t have to take exams like the 5th and 6th graders, but all the teachers have to fill out progress reports for each student and Yixing puts Yifan in charge of another charity event that one of the parent groups wants to hold in the gym. 

Henry is busy with exams back home, but Yifan wouldn’t have time to call him regardless.  They set a Skype date for Henry’s reading day in November, and fill the meantime with sporadic texts.  Yifan spams Henry’s snapchat, mostly pics of strange boxed foods he finds in the discount bin of the supermarket and occasional updates on the growing water stain spreading across his bathroom ceiling.      

He empties Amber’s shredder three times in four days, although her floor is still cluttered with stacks of files up to the knees of her khaki shorts.  Zhou Mi helps Yifan select new tablecloths for the fundraiser, flicking through pricing and color options on the screen of his tablet after the staff meeting, but he’s too short on time for a real break with a pot of hand blended tea leaves, reverting to the instant coffee Key habitually guzzles between periods.  Chanyeol waves at him in the hall, but even he’s too busy to interrupt Yifan’s picnic lunches with a popsicle in each fist. 

The ivory damask table cloths Zhou Mi helped choose end up back ordered, but otherwise the parent brunch on Saturday goes smoothly.  Changmin’s in charge of supervising the catering staff, so Yifan takes a plate of food to his office, not wanting to sit awkwardly in the back through several repetitive rounds of gratuitous speeches.

He eats the grapes and chunks of not so ripe melon, but picks at the cold slices of sweet omelette with his plastic fork, browsing the iTunes store on his phone for nothing in particular.  He hasn’t bought new music for awhile, partly because his library is overcrowded with plenty of good stuff, but mostly because he has no one to explore new tracks with.  Not since late nights of Jess curled around his hips on the mattress, his laptop balanced on stiff knees drowning out the soul-numbing noise echoing in his chest with different noise.  Henry just replies to the youtube links Yifan sends him with cheesy emoticons and rarely actually clicks them.        

Yifan yawns as he scrolls past album art of indie singles he will never buy, and almost kicks over the orange crate when his phone rings in his hand. 

“Hello?” he answers hesitantly.  He was so caught off guard by the sudden buzzing that he forgot to check the caller ID.

“Hey!  Happy weekend!”  It’s Chanyeol, and he sounds far too awake for 9:30 AM on a gray Saturday. 

“Oh, hi.”  Yifan yawns again, trying to muffle the drag of his breath with his wrist.

“Are you busy?  Where are you?”

“Sort of.”  Yifan eyes the last grape rolling along the perimeter of his paper plate.  “I’m at school.  Parent’s volunteer fundraiser thing.”

“Nice!  When does that finish?” 

“Maybe in an hour?”  Yifan checks the clock.  It was advertised as a brunch, but the event started at 9:00.  The speeches can’t last past noon, surely.  “But then I have to clean up.”

“Oh,” Chanyeol sighs, and Yifan can picture the sag of his shoulders as he exhales.  “How long will that take?” 

“Not long, maybe another hour.”  He doesn’t have to clean up the food, just the tables and the sound system, and dust mop the polished floor.

“No plans for tonight?”  Chanyeol’s words are slow, precisely outlined and launched with his tongue, like he’s distracted by something in the room, or trying to feel Yifan out.   

“Just making sweet, sweet love to my bed.”  Chanyeol splutters, loud and gravelly in his ear, and Yifan scratches his nose while he waits for him to stop laughing.  “And maybe some instant noodles.  I don’t know, I didn’t plan that far ahead.”

“That’s ok!  I’ll just plan for you,” Chanyeol says.  “You should hang out with us tonight.  I mean, Tao and me.  I’m buying, so no excuses.”

“But, but my comfy bed,” Yifan pretends to protest, pinching his nose with a tremulous whine.  Chanyeol laughs until he chokes, the line popping with static as he fumbles his phone. 

“Tell your bed it has to wait,” Chanyeol croaks.  “Tonight is my turn.”

“What time?”  The grape finally rolls to a stop, its path blocked by the greasy chunks of omelette.    

“Probably six.  But I’ll text you.  I’m picking Zitao up at CU, you just wanna meet us there?”

“Alright.  Six at the CU.”  Yifan nods to himself, freeing the grape with a flick of his finger.  “See you soon.”

Yifan heads down the hill a little before 6:00, but Zitao isn’t inside the store.  A girl with long dark hair and too much eyeliner looks up from behind the counter.  Yifan buys a can of hot cocoa and ducks out to wait on the sidewalk.  He has a thick flannel warmer under his jacket, but he left his gloves at home. 

Chanyeol pulls up before Yifan’s hand warmer gets cold and rolls down the window.  “Hey, sorry for the change of plans, but Zitao got stuck with desk duty at his dorm.  You still up for hanging out?”

“Uh, sure.”  Yifan slips his unopened drink into his jacket pocket.  The zipper only closes halfway as he opens the car door.  The can makes a lump under his seat belt. 

Chanyeol drives them to a noodle restaurant.  The sign out front is dingy, in need of a power washing or maybe a new coat of paint, but inside the floors are well scrubbed.  The low ceiling and the thick quilted floor cushions make Yifan want to melt against the wall behind his back.  Instead he leans forward to pull utensils from the side drawer as Chanyeol places their order.  Noodles for two and a serving of soy sauce ddeokbokki.  Beer, but only one bottle, no soju. 

“Early day tomorrow?” Yifan asks as Chanyeol stops him from filling his glass more than halfway. 

“No,” Chanyeol says.  Their glasses clink and he takes a sip.  “But I still have to drive home, and I have a bottle of rice wine I was saving for tonight.  Some stuff Tao likes.”

“Rice wine?  As in makgeolli?”  The first noodle Yifan tries to grasp slips through his chopsticks and splashes in the soup.  He wipes the fine spray of greasy broth from his chin. 

“Not makgeolli.”  Chanyeol a piece of yellow radish between his teeth and swallows.  “Yeonyeopju, it has lotus leaf in it.  My aunt brought me some from Daejeon.” 

“Sounds like some kind of traditional medicine.”  Yifan takes a large bite of soup to clear the bitter memory of homemade medicine from his tongue.  The black tea his grandma cooked for him got rid of fevers, but the recovery was hardly worth the taste, in Yifan’s opinion. 

“No, no!  It’s really very good,” Chanyeol insists.  “Not that strong, a little sweet.” 

“I’d have to smell it first,” Yifan says, picking out a slice of ginger between translucent leaves of kimchi. His sense of smell is one of his keenest assets, and liquids always have a stronger smell.  Just from the odor, he can usually tell from the doorway of a classroom if the trash will need to be double bagged or not.  “Before I’d know if I could taste it.”  Chanyeol gives him a funny look, his eyes blinking rapidly. 

“That’s weird.  But you’re welcome to sniff my liquor if you really want to.” 

“Ok,” Yifan says, “so where is this magical lotus stuff?  Did you bring it along?”

“No.”  Something shifts in Chanyeol’s face.  His eyebrows straighten a shade, his lips tensing around a bean sprout.  “It’s at home.” 

“Oh.”  Yifan flips over his spoon, the blunt edge of the tip creasing his napkin.  “Then next time, when Zitao has time.”

“Zitao will be busy til November, probably.”  Chanyeol sniffs.  His nose is running, either from the hot soup or the extra ginger grated into the kimchi.  “And actually, I have something to show you.  A lesson plan I’m working on.” 

“To show me?” 

Chanyeol nods, wiping his nose on a napkin. 

“To ask your advice about, actually.  Artist to artist.”  He finishes with the same curling smile he uses to coax Sehun out of hiding and Yifan laughs.

“Ok.  I guess I’m free tonight.” 

“Sweet!”  Chanyeol picks up his water glass and clinks it against Yifan’s beer.  “Art sessions and alcohol sniffing!  Hehe, that sounds like the name of some pretentious club meeting on Taozi’s campus.” 

“Lots of people sniff wine,” Yifan points outs, stealing the last bite of ddeokbokki away from Chanyeol’s chopsticks.  “Smelling things isn’t weird.” 

“Ok.”  Chanyeol’s eyes are sparkling at him behind his glasses, the lenses misty with steam from the soup.  “I just like to touch things.”

“Things.”  Yifan takes another swallow of beer.  They’re not going to finish this bottle, probably, before they leave.  

“Yup.”  Chanyeol stretches back, leaning his weight onto his hands.  He’s wearing that pink and white pin striped shirt again, one Yifan hasn’t seen since September, and is really too thin for this weather, even under a gray cardigan.  “Suede couches.  The inside of sea shells.  Wet paint.”  Yifan snorts. 

“No wonder your classes do finger painting all the time.” 

“But I like soft things the best.”  Chanyeol slumps against the wall, his feet stretched out parallel to the length of the table.  He has a tiny hole near the toe of his sock.  “Your shirt,” Chanyeol says, “looks so soft.”

“It is,” Yifan smirks, holding out his forearm so Chanyeol can test out the feel if he really wants to.  That’s normal, right.  They’re drinking buddies now, so it’s not weird for them to have skinship.  Hell, Zitao practically fell asleep with his head in Chanyeol’s lap the last time they went out for dinner. 

“Looks really soft,” Chanyeol repeats, reaching past Yifan’s arm, and goes straight for his chest.  “I really like fur, too.”  His fingers skim the faux fur lining peeking out of Yifan’s pocket.  Yifan tries not to flinch as his thumb dips into the opening. 

“It’s fake though.”

Chanyeol pulls his hand away, blinking in surprise.  His wrist sticks out of the end of his pink cuff.  

“The fur,” Yifan explains, snapping the bottom closure of the padded flannel jacket.  He and Henry have matching ones.  They bought them on sale at a sporting goods store senior year of high school.  Henry talks him into buying a lot of useless , but Yifan likes this jacket.  A lot of people compliment him in it.  Kihyun especially liked it, the thick fur around the collar. 

“Fur is still fur.”  Chanyeol shrugs, his shoulders sliding up the wood paneling of the wall.  “As long it’s soft, I don’t discriminate.”  He fishes a piece of squash out of the dregs of his soup and pushes back his bowl.  “You ready?” 

Yifan beats Chanyeol to the register this time and Chanyeol gives in with a sigh, whacking Yifan in the back of the head with his wallet. 

“Only ‘cause you’re providing drinks,” Yifan says, and Chanyeol perks up at the mention of alcohol, his long lashes batting against flushed cheeks. 

“Come on, let’s go home!” he says, and tugs Yifan by the fur-lined cuff of his jacket out to the parking lot. 

******

“Hey, so what do you think of self portraits?”  Chanyeol takes the seat across from Chanyeol, setting aside his drink to slide a handful of post card prints into the space between them.  They’re at the table in Chanyeol’s spacious kitchen, a pendant lamp suspended from the high ceiling casting a warm glow over the dark wood.  “That should be fun, right?”  He spreads the stack out across the table, shuffling them around in rows and columns with the tip of his thumb. 

“Yeah, as long as your grading criteria isn’t how realistic the portraits turn out.”  Chanyeol laughs, the sound as smooth as the rice wine slipping down Yifan’s throat.  The lotus stuff does smell good, maybe better than it tastes.  A little yeasty behind the delicate sweetness. 

“I need to pick examples.”  Chanyeol slides the one in the center, Van Gogh’s self portrait with the smoking pipe, right and then left.  “Which ones do you like the best?”  He pushes the card all the way to the end and brings a Frida Kahlo with a glossy finish to the middle.    

“Are we playing old school Tinder?  Kiss-Marry-Punch?”  Chanyeol’s laugh hums around the rim of his bowl as he takes a sip. 

“Sure, we could give it a shot.”  Yifan holds his breath, watching as Chanyeol takes his time to select from the spread.  His fingers pass over the soft pencil shading of Rosetti’s pastel sketch, Raphael’s blank eyed stare, Leonardo’s flowing beard and van Eyck’s rose colored turban before selecting three.  Most of the collection is prints of oils, but there are few examples of brush paintings and Japanese woodcuts, and even a few hand-drawn pieces on scraps of thin paper.  “Ok, go.”

Yifan scoots his chair to the end of the table so they can observe from the same angle.  “Albrecht Durer,” Yifan says, pointing to his last self portrait, “looks like a class A prick.  So, punch.”

“Aw, but he has really nice thick shiny hair!”  Chanyeol tugs on a lock of Yifan’s overgrown mane, his knuckles brushing the nape of his neck. 

“Are you implying I need a trim to fit the school dress code, or something?”  Yifan cups the side of his neck.  Chanyeol bangs the back of his head on the shelf behind him, tossing it back with a laugh. 

“Have you seen the state of Key’s hair these days?”  His laughter continues in short bursts as he rubs his head, the cuff of his wool pullover raising static.  Yifan shrugs.  Key did have it bleached recently, but he usually keep his hair hidden under a beanie. 

“Yeah, but he’s the drama teacher.  I thought there might be different standards.”  People don’t expect creative types to dress conventionally.  Yifan hardly qualifies as creative, at least in his role at school.  “You know.”      

An unexpected scowl darkens Chanyeol’s face, tipping his glasses down his nose.  He wipes the edge of his drinking bowl with his thumb.  “You’ve got to stop doing that, Yifan.”

“What.”  Yifan aligns the borders of two of the cards, a black and white print he doesn’t recognize and another Kahlo.  

“Talking like you’re not one of us.”  Chanyeol takes a sip.  Yifan can hear the mouthful swish through his teeth.  “If Yixing really cared about appearances, do you think he’d play in mud out front during business hours?”

“Let’s play the game.”  Yifan gestures to the spread of pictures between them.  “I want to give you a set.”  Chanyeol leans back and covers his eyes while he waits for Yifan to make a selection.  “Ok, go.”

“Aw!” Chanyeol wails when he sees the cards laid out in front of him.  “You made this too hard!  How am I supposed to--?  Agh!”  Yifan laughs but taps the table expectantly, swirling another sip of his drink under his tongue.

“Pick.  Come on, you have to.”

“Fine, I guess I have to punch Lee Cheng Yong, because my sister would kill me if she found out I punched a girl.”  Chanyeol slides the oil portrait to the side.  The artist in the white suit against the distinctive purple backdrop takes his rejection with solemn eyed reserve.  “And...kiss Mary Cassat, marry Frida,” Chanyeol finishes quickly, sweeping the cards aside.  “My turn!”

“Wait, really?” Yifan laughs, reaching for the last two to compare.  “You’d marry Frida?”

“Eh, Cassat seems kinda boring.  All she did was paint.  At least Kahlo lived somewhere tropical.” 

“Hm.”  Yifan takes another drink, the last trickle in his cup draining past his lips. 

“One more time.”  Chanyeol slides two cards down from the neglected top row, Van Gogh’s blue portrait and one of Rembrandt’s early sketches.  He hesitates on the last one, taking a deep breath as he shuffles a scribbled cartoon sketch of himself into the mix.  Yifan stares at the park chanyeol and date penciled across the bottom.  The writing is too neat to look much like a signature.  “Well?”  Chanyeol looks up at Yifan expectantly, swishing the tip of his tongue along his bottom teeth. 

Yifan’s first instinct is to laugh this off as a joke, but Chanyeol’s staring at him with a glass edged intensity behind his lenses that makes Yifan’s words catch in the sieve of his teeth.  He swallows down his thoughts before he says something hasty. 

Yifan bites his tongue.  Is Chanyeol flirting with him?  Because this feels more than friendly, not a game anymore.  Chanyeol’s eyes are dark in the yellow light.  A very loyal friend, Amber’s voice echoes in the space between his ears.  Yifan his lips but Chanyeol’s gaze locked in his doesn’t waver. 

“I would marry Vincent, I guess,” Yifan says slowly.  Somehow this feels like a trap, like more than the success of a class project depends on his next words.  Chanyeol bobs his head, waiting for his explanation.  “Because I’d feel bad about punching a depressed guy, and there’s no way I’m kissing that beard.” 

“Hah!”  Chanyeol’s loud snort punches the tension out of Yifan’s finger joints clenched around his empty bowl.  “Agreed on the beard!  And?”

“Well…”  .  This is just awkward.  Yifan should’ve punched Chanyeol and made a joke out of it, despite the fact he’s currently enjoying his hospitality.  “I guess--”

They both jump at the sound of Yifan’s phone vibrating against his empty bowl.  The hollow steel projects the clatter and he grabs his phone as a hot flush creeps from his collar to his hairline. 

“Sorry, I--hang on.”  The message is from Yixing, a reminder about ordering new sealant for the window frames.  A second text pops up in his inbox before he can close it, a PS reminding Yifan to sign up for the staff intramural tournament, one of the badminton teams could especially use another player.  Yifan texts back a quick ok and sounds fun but no thanks while Chanyeol scrapes the postcards back into a pile.

“You want another drink?”  Yifan always wants another drink, but he rarely indulges outside the privacy of his own room.  No one needs to see his messes, even if Chanyeol claims he doesn’t care.     

“I’m ok.  Thanks though.”

“Tea?  Or I can make coffee, if you want to wait for it.”  Chanyeol stuffs the cards into a ziploc and sets it next to his tea caddy on the shelf. 

“It’s kind of warm in here, maybe later.”  Chanyeol still his sweater on.  Yifan’s down to his T-shirt, his jacket hanging on the chair next to him, but his skin still prickles from the heat. 

“Let’s go outside then.”  Chanyeol points to the glass doors at the far end of his living room.  “I have a balcony.”  Yifan brings his jacket and Chanyeol brings the rest of the yeonyeopju, just in case. 

Yifan has a balcony, but one just big enough to fit his laundry rack.  Chanyeol’s fifteenth story veranda is the size of a double bed, maybe wider, and he folds a thick corduroy quilt into a seat for them.  There aren’t any stars to be seen, too much light pollution from the city spread out below them, but faint moonlight colors the sheen of his fingernails.  Yifan breathes deeper, the cool night air soothing the tightness of his oversensitive skin. 

“I come out here to draw, when I need to breathe,” Chanyeol says.  He pulls a rusty tackle box from under a tarp folded in the corner.  Inside the first drawer is a small sketchbook.  He takes it out, a jumble of hand sharpened pencils rolling in the top tray.  “You should draw something.” 

“In the dark?”  Yifan pushes the spiral bound book back into Chanyeol’s hands.  The lamp still on in the kitchen gives enough light to see, but everything on the balcony is draped in shadow, the folded up drying rack, the slope of Chanyeol’s nose.  

“But you saw some of my sketches inside.”  Chanyeol shuffles the pencils with his fingers, wood chiming against tin.  “So, let me see you draw!” 

“No,” Yifan shakes his head.  “I don’t draw.”

“But you were an art student!”  Chanyeol crawls forward on his knees, dropping back on his heels once he’s facing Yifan. 

“Art history,” Yifan corrects, his eyes memorizing the shadowed dip framing Chanyeol’s upper lip.  “And not anymore, I quit.”

“You must’ve taken some practicum classes, though,” Chanyeol presses, completely ignoring the slant of Yifan’s tight lipped frown.  Or maybe he can’t see too well in the dark.

“I did, but I .”  Chanyeol drops a pencil back into the tray.  It lands with a hollow clink.  “Which is part of the reason I quit.” 

“Who told you that.”  Chanyeol’s voice is a challenge, like he thinks Yifan can be cajoled into compliance the way Song Qian gets Baekhyun to wash his hands before lunch.

“My cousin.  My professor.  A douche classmate.  My--a...friend.”  Yifan counts them off on his fingers, hesitating on the last one.  “And by junior year I pretty much agreed, so.”  Yifan studies his bent fingers, the dark knots of his joints heavy under the white translucence of his skin.  Jessica liked his fingers.  She once said he would look good behind a piano, a flippant comment in a breathless interlude of an argument.  Her pointed words had squashed the last of his childhood desire to sign up for lessons.   

“Hey,” Chanyeol says, his eyes flashing with something like anger, the way they did when Song Qian called Baekhyun a brat in the breakroom.  “Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not good enough.”

Yifan just stares for a moment, watches Chanyeol’s face rearrange itself from righteous anger to  to a gentle reticence that makes Yifan’s pinky toes squirm in his borrowed slippers.  “Cause you’re a pretty ing amazing dude, you know?” 

“Thanks?” Yifan stutters, instantly blushing as Henry’s drunk voice starts singing in his head: Cause girl you’re amazing~!  Yifan presses his stiff fingers against the hard line of his cheekbones, hoping the cold touch will calm him down.  The temperature contrast just makes his gut churn. 

“I mean it, Yifan.”  All that is left in his eyes is soft darkness, and Yifan wants to sink into it.    

“Hey, Chanyeol,” he starts, reaching for Chanyeol’s shoulder to steady the dizzy feeling flip-flopping in his ribcage.  His hand freezes halfway across the distance, wrist bent at an awkward angle as Chanyeol looks up.  Both his brows raise nearly to his hairline and his lips part like he just burst out of the water after a two minute dive.

“Yeah?”  Chanyeol reaches up and laces their fingers casually, like this is what friends always do while drinking on the rooftop.  Or after drinking on the rooftop, whatever it is they’re doing now.   

Chanyeol’s fingers linked in his tighten, holding Yifan in place, breath to breath, nose to nose.  And that’s all it takes for Yifan’s tension to snap, the bungee cord holding his heart safely in place giving way for a free fall into the pit of his stomach.  He leans in to meet Chanyeol’s chapped lips, just a firm press and then he pulls away.

“Hey,” Chanyeol says, his voice too liquid to be a whisper.  Yifan squares his shoulders until his scapulas meet in the back, as if that might keep his heart from beating through the ed front of his jacket. 

“Yeah?”  He swallows a shaky breath.  His teeth clink together, hollow and wooden around the damp of his tongue.   

“You could try that again,” Chanyeol says, his dark eyes misty with something like affection.  He blinks behind his breath clouded glasses. 

“Ok.”  Yifan can’t control the victorious curve of his lips.  It’s been a long time since he indulged in the reckless thrill Henry lives for.  Kissing Chanyeol is definitely reckless, as the tremors locking the joints of his fingers alert him.  But the clean scent of Chanyeol’s hair feels safe, milk and hot oatmeal.  A sun warmed comforter airing on the balcony.  “But first,” he reaches up to hook his fingers around the sides of Chanyeol’s glasses, a collective hitch in their breath as chill fingertips brush heated skin at Chanyeol’s temples. 

Yifan breathes in through his nose, watches Chanyeol’s slow blink and waits for him to lift his face, eyelashes brushing closed and lips parting as Yifan lifts the frames up and off.  He folds them as best as he can with one hand, Chanyeol’s fingers still woven in his.  Yifan lowers them to the edge of the blanket and Chanyeol tugs impatiently on the hem of his shirt.  This time Yifan just feels the heat, the rough drag of his dry lips lost in the melt and pressure as Chanyeol shifts up to his knees for leverage.  His mouth erodes Yifan’s composure, insistent and demanding, like he’s trying to swallow him down through closed lips. 

Chanyeol whimpers, more an impatient whine than a moan.  He releases Yifan’s fingers to yank him forward with both hands fisted in his shirt.  Yifan’s hips settle over Chanyeol’s lap, most of his weight braced on his knees.  The ground is hard and the cold seeps into his shins, even through the thin insulation of the blanket, but that is the last thing Yifan cares about right now. 

Chanyeol tilts his head and swipes the tiniest kitten against the corner of Yifan’s mouth, grinning as shoves Yifan forward with a broad hand palming the curve of his .  They break apart with a gasp as their hips meet.  Yifan struggles to reorient himself by the dim points of far off light winking at the edges of his vision, Chanyeol’s heaving chest flush against his own and Chanyeol’s arm holding him, tight.  He lays his cheek on Chanyeol’s shoulder, a sudden twinge of shyness worming up from his chest as reality sets in. 

“So,” Chanyeol says, his hand slipping under Yifan’s jacket to thumb the ridges of his spine through his thin shirt.  Yifan nods into the curve of his shoulder, still trying to smooth his ragged breathing.  Chanyeol’s lips feather kisses along his hairline, just below his ear, and Yifan sits up, thick blood pulsing in his ears.

“So,” Chanyeol starts again, “that was--”

The veranda light of the next unit turns on with a click and Yifan jerks back, sliding off Chanyeol’s lap.  He catches his fall, the grit of fine gravel stinging his palms.  Chanyeol needs to sweep his veranda. 

Chanyeol doesn’t look frightened, just surprised, his flushed lips hanging open.  An elderly woman hobbles through the sliding door of the next balcony and looks over curiously.  A fat yellow curler bobs against her forehead as she nods to them in silent acknowledgement and turns to hang the laundry in the the basket balanced on her hip.  

“It’s late,” Yifan says.  Chanyeol is still, his gaze tangled in the blue fluorescent beam.  Already there are mosquitoes dancing in the cool glow, a swarm of static surviving even this weather.  “Are you cold?” he mumbles, lips shivering.  “Maybe we should go in.”  Chanyeol nods, black eyes unreadable in the glare of the neighbor’s porch light. 

Yifan hangs in the doorway, still wrapped in the chilled comforter.  Chanyeol stumbles across the obstacle course spread over his living room floor, laundry and library books and upturned shopping bags leading the way to the kitchen.  “I forgot,” he says.  His fingers fumble for the lightswitch along the wall by the table.  “The lamp runs on a timer.”   

“Your kitchen light is on a timer?”  It’s a detail so adult and mundanely responsible, Yifan’s surprised he didn’t think of it.

“Ow!” Chanyeol grunts, kicking something with a sharp crack that sounded painful.  “Ow, , ow!” 

“Are you ok?” Yifan calls, stepping into the room just as the light pops on.  He grimaces, a reflexive palm flying up to shade his eyes.  Under the artificial glow he’s suddenly aware of how wrinkled his shirt must be, the thin material bunched under his jacket at the armpits and stuck to his sides with rapidly cooling sweat.

“Yeah,” Chanyeol sighs.  He sits down at the table to rub his toes, rocking against the chair back.  “Stupid guitar stand in the stupid walkway.”

“Yeah, I wonder who left that there,” Yifan says drily.  Chanyeol doesn’t laugh, just turns to fix him with a pout that makes his bottom lip jut.  Yifan chokes on a breathless giggle as the want to kiss him again, to bite down on the plush of his lips, punches him square in the gut. 

“Don’t laugh at my pain,” Chanyeol scolds, but he’s smiling again, all teeth and puffy eyelids.  His glasses must still be outside under the laundry rack.  His smile stretches into a broad yawn and Yifan squints down at his phone.  He’s missed the last bus by more than an hour.  He’ll have to call a cab. 

“Hey, can I wash up before I…”  Yifan glances towards the hall.  All of the doors are closed, and he’s not sure which one is the bathroom. 

“Oh, sure.  Sorry.”  Chanyeol gets up, wincing as he puts weight on his injured toes.  “Do you want to shower now or in the morning?”

“What?”  Yifan’s fingers still on the buttons of his jacket. 

“I mean, you don’t have to shower, but I do have lots of towels!”  Chanyeol opens a narrow closet at the front of the hall and pulls out an armful.  “What color do you want?”

“I just wanted to--I need to call a taxi.”  Yifan points at the front door.  His black bag is leaning against his sneakers, one cracked leather handle flopped over his shoelaces and the long shoulder strap draped across the floorboards.

“Don’t be silly, you’re staying here tonight.”  Chanyeol pulls a yellow towel from the middle of the stack and shoves the rest back on the shelf.  “You can have my bed, ‘cause you’re the guest.”      

“Chanyeol, I’m not stealing your bed.”  Yifan’s hair is dry, the ends brittle between his fingers as he worries them.  “Thank you for your hospitality but--”

“Yifan.”  Chanyeol tosses him the towel.  It lands over his shoulder, half unfolded.  “Just shut up.  This is me giving you permission to stop with the polite stuff.”

“But--”

“I’m just gonna brush my teeth real quick, ok?  And then you can have the shower.”  Chanyeol grins at him before locking the bathroom door.  Yifan leans against the table and neatly refolds the ends of the towel.  The terrycloth loops are thick and cushy and swallow his hand when he presses his palm into the plush. 

Chanyeol takes forever to brush his teeth.  Either he got distracted staring at himself in the mirror, or he’s taking his time on purpose in hopes Yifan will get too sleepy to leave while waiting.  Regardless, that’s exactly what happens.  Chanyeol catches him mid yawn when he emerges, and Yifan allows himself to be manhandled into the bathroom with a scowl, limbs too heavy to resist. 

“That’s the shampoo, and that’s the rinse, and that one’s lavender scented rinse if you prefer.  Toothpaste, soap.”  Chanyeol points out the contents of his shower caddy as if Yifan can’t read the labels for himself.  “There’s a clean toothbrush in the cabinet.”  Yifan nods, his tongue too thick against the roof of his mouth to respond.  “I’ll leave the bedroom light on for you.  Night!”

The door closes.  Yifan strips his rumpled clothes onto the cold tile, kicking the pile into the corner by the door hinges.  He glares at the showerhead and the little butterflies on the white shower curtain.  The water is taking too long to heat up.  His hot water definitely heats up faster.  Chanyeol’s soap smells nice though, a little lemony and very fresh. 

Yifan wraps himself in the thick yellow towel and sits down on the edge of the tub to brush his teeth.  He frowns at the mirror when he stands to spit.  He’s still mad at Chanyeol for getting his way, not that he really minds staying.  But Chanyeol’s toothpaste tastes weird.  Kind of spicy behind the sparkle of mint. 

The kitchen light is off when he heads back to the living room in his T-shirt and jeans, his wet hair dripping onto the damp towel and his jacket flung over his arm.  By the light from the bedroom he can make out Chanyeol’s form curled on the sofa, his face tucked into the curve of his elbow.  He must’ve changed while Yifan was in the shower.  Yifan can see the stretchy gray cuffs of thick sweat pants enveloping his ankles where his feet stick out from the thick comforter wrapped around his waist. 

“Goodnight,” Yifan whispers, and closes the bedroom door behind him as quietly as he can. 

******

Yifan wakes up with one leg off the mattress, the side of his knee pressed into the cold floor, and the other tangled in the corner of a plaid flannel comforter.  He tries to lift his head, but one tilting glance around the empty room is enough to rattle his brain into a thick streak of pain behind his eyes. 

With a soft grunt he heaves his exposed leg onto the mattress and burrows deeper into the twist of blankets.  He nudges his face under the slightly lumpy pillow and waits for the warm oblivion of sleep to settle over him again.  When his patience is only rewarded with a rash of goosebumps creeping up his bare arms, Yifan rolls over with a frustrated groan.  His knees hit the floorboards with a hollow thump. 

Chanyeol’s in the kitchen, sitting on the counter in shorts and a faded black hoodie, his long legs dangling almost to the floor.  “Oh, you’re up early!”  

“Mm.”  Yifan grunts and points at the coffee maker plugged into the wall next to Chanyeol.  His eyes won’t stay open yet but he hears Chanyeol’s soft oof as he hops to the floor, the scrape of a cabinet door, the clink of china. 

“Do you want a seat?”  Yifan blinks his eyes back open, squinting out of the left one as he tries to focus the right.  Chanyeol helps him into the nearest chair, a padded leather straight back that is almost as comfortable as his bed, and sets a steaming mug on the table in front of him. 

“Thanks.”  This time Chanyeol added sugar, and Yifan smiles into the steam as the sweet liquid burns across the back of his tongue, his dry throat working painfully as he swallows. 

“Welcome.”  Chanyeol yawns, his nostrils flaring.  “But if you want actual food, we’ll have go out.  Unless you can make breakfast out of canned asparagus and capers.  And I think I might have mayonnaise?  Might.” 

“Why do you have capers?  And what makes you think I can cook?”  The coffee maker splutters and Yifan twists his spine, joints popping back into place.

“My sister probably left them here, she’s into Italian food.”  Chanyeol sets his empty mug in the sink.  “Let’s go out for breakfast.  There’s a cafe just down the block.”  Yifan nods and gulps down half his coffee, burning the rest of his tongue in the wash.  “I’m gonna change clothes, you want to borrow some?  Oh, I know!”  

Chanyeol scampers down the hall before Yifan can respond and returns with two more hoodies in either hand.  “Do you want purple or black?”  Yifan points to the black one and Chanyeol tosses the sweater and a clean T-shirt to him. 

He waits until Chanyeol disappears into the bedroom again to change out of his clothes and pull the sweater on over his T-shirt.  The cotton is soft from many launderings, the cuffs folding loosely against his wrists.  Chanyeol comes back in a pair of faded black jeans with rips at the knees. 

“Let’s go.”  Chanyeol waves his wallet.  Yifan slips on his shoes and fumbles with the laces while they wait for the elevator.   

The sky is overcast, only patchy holes in the cloud cover, like chopsticks poked through crepe paper streamers, allowing the sunlight to burnish the tousled waves of Chanyeol’s hair.  Yifan’s hair is probably a mess.  He rakes a hand through the front and tugs the ends behind his ears. 

He wets his lips and wishes he kept chapstick in his bag like he did back in high school.  He got lazy about remembering things like that when he could always borrow from Jess.  She was always equally prepared for medical or fashion disasters, a small pharmacy of painkillers, allergy meds and bandages tucked into her purse next to emergency nail files, clear nail polish, extra bobby pins and nylons, and petals.

“Do you drink coffee for breakfast every morning?”  Chanyeol catches Yifan’s fingers in his warm hand as they cross the alley at the end of his block.  Yifan squeezes back but pulls out of the grip to tuck his hands in the front of his borrowed hoodie. 

“No.  I’m too lazy to make drip coffee on week days and I don’t like instant enough to have it daily.” 

“You could always buy it.”

Yifan could, but that’s an expensive habit.  Henry wastes so much on caramel drizzled crap every exam week. 

“Like I said, I’m lazy.  I don’t the leave the house until the last possible minute.”  It takes him almost an hour to get to school in the mornings, since he has to wait for a transfer at the terminal. 

“Ah,” Chanyeol sighs.  His hood is up and he looks like an eskimo.  Or a dork.  It makes his glasses look extra cute, though.  “Too bad you live so far from me.  I would make you coffee.”

“You’re too nice for your own good, Chanyeol.” 

Chanyeol trips on his shoe lace as he jogs up the steps to the cafe.  The door swishes open, Chanyeol’s hand coming down on Yifan’s shoulder for a squeeze as they walk up to the counter.  Yifan shrugs him off, stepping up to the register to order first.  “I’ll go find a table,” he tells Chanyeol as steps aside with his receipt.

Chanyeol waits at the front for their tray.  He finds Yifan at a table by the window and unloads their order, Yifan’s bagel and latte, and his own blended juice and breakfast muffin. 

“This is my favorite place for breakfast!”  Chanyeol tears the top off his muffin and a morsel off his palm.  Yifan takes a cautious sip of coffee and watches the intermittent spatter of crumbs onto Chanyeol’s plate and the surrounding area of the table.  “Is your coffee good?”

“Mm hm.”  Yifan swallows and picks up a slice of his bagel.  Chanyeol’s muffin has large chocolate chunks.  He should have ordered one too. 

“You have cream on your nose!”  Without warning Chanyeol swipes at Yifan’s nose with a napkin, tweaking the bulge of his cheek before returning his hand to his lap.  Yifan chokes, taking a gulp of coffee to ease the tension in his throat.  “Hey, what’s wrong?”  Chanyeol tears the wrapper off the bottom half of his muffin, separating the thin paper in strips. 

“No PDA,” Yifan grits out around his half chewed mouthful of stale bagel.  “Please, it’s embarrassing.”  He’s blushing into his coffee but Chanyeol just stirs the ice in his juice glass with his chewed-on straw.  

“You mean I’m embarrassing.”  His voice is flat, a statement of plain fact, but Yifan can sense the uncertain question underneath trying to claw its way out. 

“Do you want some bagel.”  Yifan holds out the center slice and Chanyeol takes it with a weak smile.  He has chocolate smeared under his thumb nail and Yifan wants to shove a napkin at him and tell him to fix it, but he doesn’t.

“Did you see Yixing’s message about the play?”

“No.”  Yifan hasn’t checked his phone yet, content to linger in the atmospheric inertia of last night as long as his mood will allow him.  He hasn’t completely figured out how he feels about what happened, for one thing.  He wants to think about it first, but not in front of Chanyeol in the middle of a restaurant when he’s still too sleepy to control his facial expressions. 

“Oh, well every year there’s a Christmas play in English.  They do one in Mandarin at Seollal, too.” 

“Completely in English?”  Chanyeol nods, his wiry hair bouncing across his forehead.  “And the kids can handle that?” 

“Well, the little guys dress up but mostly just stand there.  Sort of like animated props, you could say.” 

“It’s hard to imagine Baekhyun in anything other than a T-shirt, just standing still on stage.”  Sehun, though.  Just give a him a stool to crawl under and you’d need the entire stage crew to drag him offstage. 

“He’ll do just fine.”  Chanyeol’s glasses are crooked again, slipping down on his right ear.  “The parents don’t care if they mess up formation a bit.” 

“It’s hard to mess up when you’re that cute.”  Yifan reaches across the table to wipe his fingers on Chanyeol’s napkin.  Chanyeol smiles at him, all teeth, revealing the dark residue of melted chocolate outlining his gums. 

“You wanna know what else is cute?”  Chanyeol shifts forward, the strings of his hoodie dragging through the crumbs on his plate.  

“Mwhat.”  He keeps asking questions when Yifan’s mouth is full.  Chanyeol looks both ways, like he’s checking for traffic at the crosswalk, and leans in closer. 

“You still have some cream on your nose,” Chanyeol whispers.  “But don’t wipe it!  It’s cute.”

“Shut up and finish your muffin,” Yifan gags, grabbing for the napkin, but he smiles back anyway. 

******