“Ok!  Here we are, entering the laboratory at…” Chanyeol pushes back his sweater sleeve to check his watch.  “9:53 PM!  Make a note of that, Yifan.”

“Why am I the secretary?”  Yifan hefts the five kilo flour sack with a low grunt.  He had gotten out of signing up for the intramurals, but somehow Chanyeol roped him into helping with the refreshments.  Chanyeol didn’t have to try very hard.     

“Lights!”  Chanyeol leans through the doorway to Jonghyun’s kitchen and hits the panel of switches.  Yifan blinks at the sharp fluorescent glare.  “Camera!”

“Hey!” Yifan protests as Chanyeol opens a crappy phone app to edit the selca he was not prepared for.  He has half a mind to snatch the phone away and delete the picture before Chanyeol can post it all over the net, but he might break all of their toes if he drops the flour.  He settles for nudging Chanyeol in the back of the knee with his foot.  “This is heavy, let me in.”

“All done!  I used the Minty Cream filter, jjajan!”  Chanyeol holds up his phone but there’s too much glare for Yifan to get a good look.  “Make a note of that!”

“Why do we even need a secretary?  We’re just baking cookies.”

“How else will our secret mission be recorded in the annals of history?”  Chanyeol stumbles aside as Yifan shoulders through the doorway.  The heavy door swings shut with a resounding thud as he marches forward to dump the flour on the counter next to the wide double sink.  There’s no one else at school at this hour so he’s not worried about the noise as much as he’d usually be.

“We need a bowl and a spoon, right?”  Chanyeol is on his knees rummaging through a cabinet as Yifan scrubs his hands clean.  “Or, do you think cooking chopsticks would work better for stirring?”

“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone make cookies on TV using chopsticks.”  Yifan flicks the excess water from his hands and shuts off the water.  It’s cold enough to make his fingers itch.

“Yeah, you’re right.  A wooden spoon’s probably the way to go.”  Chanyeol grunts as a long handled spoon clatters to the counter.            

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”  Yifan rests a tentative hand on Chanyeol’s back, trying to peer into the dark space.  Even through the thick flannel of his plaid shirt Yifan can feel his heat seep into his palm.  Chanyeol is always so warm, in the soft pink blush in his cheeks and the tips of his ears that blooms red when he chases Jongdae across the playground, and in the sun warmed velvet of his voice.

“Uh, we’ll find out?”  Something in the back of the cabinet tips over with a hollow clang.

“This is where you’re supposed to say ‘absolutely’.”  Yifan props his hands on his hips, cupping his palms around the studs on his belt.

“I’m a bigger fan of Einstein than Newton,” Chanyeol says, swiping at his brow as he emerges from the crawl space below the sink.  He hands Yifan two bowls, a glass one and a yellow plastic one the size of a large watermelon.  “You know, because absolutes are boring.  Limiting.”

“You mean the Theory of Relativity?”

“Yeah!  That thing!”  Chanyeol claps his hands as he staggers to his feet, a stack of baking sheets under his arm. “Gotta love the Renaissance, hehe!”

“Einstein was a contemporary of Picasso, not Da Vinci.”  Yifan pulls the trays from Chanyeol’s hands and slides them onto the counter.  Chanyeol wobbles as he gets to his feet, grabbing Yifan’s wrist for support. 

“Ok, Professor, first we need flour.”  Chanyeol rips the top off the flour sack and starts spooning it into the bowl.

“Aren’t you gonna measure that?”  Yifan points at the growing heap in the bottom of the yellow bowl.  There is no sign of a scale or any measuring cups in sight.

“Live a little, Yifan.  ‘Sides, artists are really good at eyeballing things.  I made all of that papier mache paste myself, no measurements!”   

“And god, it looked so edible,” Yifan snorts, pulling the lid off the tin of baking powder.  Chanyeol just laughs, the sound like the wrinkled plush of crushed velvet in Yifan’s ears.  He digs into the powder with a tiny plastic ice cream spoon he found in the utensil drawer.  Yifan steals it from him to sprinkle in the salt.

“Ok!”  Chanyeol dusts off his palms on the leg of Yifan’s jeans.  “You get to stir first, but only ‘cause I like you.”  Yifan accepts the spoon Chanyeol hands him and pretends he didn’t hear the way his voice warbled on the last two words.  He plunges the spoon into the mound of dry ingredients and waits for the little puffs of disturbed flour to settle before picking up his rhythm.

“Hi.”  Yifan shivers at the unexpected heat of Chanyeol’s breath against his ear as his arms drop in a warm mantle over Yifan’s shoulders.  He leans back into Chanyeol’s weight with a soft growl.

“Get off, Yeol.  I can’t stir properly.”

“Sorry,” Chanyeol whispers and lets his arms melt down Yifan’s sides.  They tighten around his hips, caging Yifan against the counter as he resumes stirring through the mix, folding the dry ingredients into an even blend.

Chanyeol lets out a sigh as he nuzzles into the back of Yifan’s shoulder.  His fringe is tickling at Yifan’s neck, but Yifan doesn’t really want him to move.  He stirs a few extra , just to make sure everything’s perfectly blended, before setting down the spoon.  You can never be too careful.  Baking powder lumps are the worst, as they both learned from the Pre-K kids’ pancake experiment in Jonghyun’s class. 

“Eggs?”  Yifan scans the countertop for their sack of supplies.  Chanyeol is standing too close for him to move without knocking something over.    

“Oh, oh!  I got them.”  Chanyeol pushes off the counter and scampers to their pile of coats and bags by the door.  Yifan in a deep breath, reaching for the dish of butter they left out to soften.  He pokes at it with the spoon and leaves a nice dent.  The wooden edge comes away slick with grease.

“Did you find it?”

“Here we go!”  Chanyeol dumps the rest of their shopping out on the counter, three kinds of sugar, chocolate chunks, and milk.  Yifan grabs the bag handles before the eggs crash land as well. “Ok, so the sugar and butter, my sister said you have to really beat those before combining.”

“Combining what?”  Yifan smushes the butter against the sides of the glass bowl as he watches Chanyeol tear an oblong hole in the side of the brown sugar.  Chanyeol shrugs and squeezes half the bag on top of Yifan’s spoon.  He wrinkles his nose when a clump of the sticky granules pushes under his thumbnail.  “Is your sister good at baking?  Hey!”  Yifan stumbles backwards as Chanyeol nabs the spoon from him with an elbow to the gut.

“She already has a boyfriend, Casanova.”  Yifan huffs at Chanyeol’s side eyed wink and leans his elbows on the counter as Chanyeol gets to work on the sugar.  He’s cradling the shallow bowl in the crook of his arm as he wields the spoon, the tip of his tongue darting between his teeth. 

Yifan shifts closer until his sweater rubs the flannel of Chanyeol’s shirt and he inhales the clean scent of lemon and lavender.  It would be so easy to slide his palm up the firm lines of Chanyeol’s back, curl his fingers into the rough wave of Chanyeol’s messy hair.  Something in the glare of the fluorescents off the bowl, in Chanyeol’s intent focus on his task, holds him back though. 

He almost gets an elbow to the ear when Chanyeol jumps back, batter slopping out of the bowl on a particularly enthusiastic stir.  Yifan tears a strip of paper towels from the roll mounted above the sink.  

“Sorry, thanks!”  Chanyeol wads the paper in his fist and wipes at the mess.  He mostly just smears it, but they’ll wash up more thoroughly at the end of the night.

“I think we’re ready for eggs now,” Chanyeol says, peering at the grainy mixture oozing down the sides of the bowl.  Yifan hands him an egg, the shell still chill from the fridge, as Chanyeol checks his watch.  “Sweet!  It is now...9:57 PM, and we’re about to add the first egg.  Make a--”

“Shut up,” Yifan groans, tossing the messy towels in the sink.  Chanyeol bangs the egg on the flat of the counter and brings his hand up clutching at a gooey mess of shattered shell.  He unsuccessfully tries to catch the drips with his other hand.  His eyelids flutter as he turns to Yifan, jaw flexed in horror, and Yifan almost hits his forehead on the faucet from laughing so hard.

“Good thing you didn’t do that over the bowl!”  Chanyeol nods meekly and shuffles towards the sink.  His pink lips are gathered in a tight pout.

“Help me wash this off?”  He nudges Yifan with his foot until he straightens up.

“What should I charge you in exchange for my services?”  Yifan pauses with his hand on the tap.  Chanyeol doesn’t answer, just leans in to capture his mouth in a wet kiss.

“Stop.”  Yifan pushes him away with a fist to his shoulder.  Chanyeol stumbles back with a surprised pout that flickers into a frown, his slimy hands still outstretched.  Yifan turns on the water and tests it to make sure it’s not too hot before gently guiding Chanyeol’s wrists under the flow. 

Chanyeol’s head is bowed as he meticulously strips the goo from his fingers, pausing to scrub around each nail bed.  He shuts off the tap himself but doesn’t look up for a moment.

“I meant...later,” Yifan explains, watching a drop of moisture bead on the underside of the faucet and quiver there, just small enough to resist gravity’s pull.

“Oh.  Well that too.  Ok,” Chanyeol straightens up with a nod but keeps his gaze focused on the accumulation of shell bits in the sink.  He reaches for another egg but Yifan stops him with a light touch between his shoulder blades.

“I can do it, if you want.”

Chanyeol squares his shoulders and hands over the egg with a small smile.

“Can’t wait to see you in action!”  He rubs his palms together.  The backs of his knuckles glisten with drips of moisture from the sink.  Yifan cracks the egg on the rim of the glass bowl with just enough force to sever the shell halfway.  “Wahh!”  Chanyeol claps his palms together as the orange yolk slips out of the cradle of the shell with a wet plop.  It balances on a round peak of creamed sugar.  “Damn, that was smooth!  Do it again!” 

“Do it again?  Ok, now you just sound like Lu Han!”  Yifan chuckles, but there is a buzz in the veins on the undersides of his wrists as he reaches for another egg, fully aware of Chanyeol’s expectant gaze settling over him.

Egg #2 joins the first with a splat, the yolk spilling down the mountain of butter, and Yifan’s sigh of relief is covered by the sound of Chanyeol’s throaty cheer.

“You’re so loud,” Yifan complains just because he can, scraping more bits of shell into the drain cover.

“It doesn’t matter though, ‘cause there’s no one here.”  Chanyeol loops his arm around Yifan’s neck and pulls him into a side hug until their cheeks are pillowed together.  Yifan’s eyes dart to the CCTV camera mounted in the corner across from the door, but he gives Chanyeol’s hand a squeeze as he pulls away.  Chanyeol’s right, there’s no one here but them, and he should really stop being so paranoid in general.

They manage to get the wet ingredients transferred to the bigger bowl without spilling anything.  Chanyeol supports the bowl with one hand and Yifan’s lower back with the other while Yifan scrapes out the batter.  They don’t measure the chocolate chunks either, just dump in both bags, because obviously the more chocolate the better.

They get their mess cleaned up while the oven preheats, the greased cookie sheets loaded with spoonfuls of dough ready and waiting on the empty stovetop.

“Ugh,” Chanyeol sighs, pressing his nose to the glass door of the oven. “Why does this part always take so long.”  He’s crouching, both hands braced on the handle of the door, the perfect height for Yifan to kneel behind him and rest his chin on his shoulder.  

“The oven should be ready in a few minutes.”  Yifan double checks the floor for any spots of spilled flour he missed and turns on the sink to rinse his hands.

“But then we have to wait again while they bake.”

“At least then it will smell good?”

Chanyeol swivels his head so his temple rests on the handle between his fists.  “That just makes it harder.  So close and yet so far.”  He’s making mournful abandoned puppy eyes now.  Yifan shakes the drips from his fingers as the song from Enchanted begins to play in Henry’s voice, and look how far we’ve come~!  Chanyeol wets his lips with a swipe of his tongue.

“Hey,” Yifan taps his shoulder, “you’ve got something on your face.”  Chanyeol heaves himself up with a low groan and leans closer.  His bent knees dig into Yifan’s thighs.

“Where?”

“Here.”  Yifan tilts up his chin with a crooked knuckle so he can get at the smudge of dried batter streaked under Chanyeol’s left cheekbone.  He moistens the spot with his damp fingers and rubs with the tip of his thumb.

“You got it?”  Chanyeol’s eyes are so dark this close up, and too bright.  They remind him of supernovas.  Yifan nods, leaning back to examine his face.

“All good.”

“Hehe!  You’ve got flour in your eyebrows!”  Yifan tenses as Chanyeol’s fingers graze his forehead.  “There.”  Chanyeol’s eyes narrow as his smile curls tighter.  Yifan’s trying to think of something clever to say when the oven beeps loudly.

They jump apart at the sudden sound, and Yifan reaches for Jonghyun’s quilted oven mitts stashed on top of the microwave.  They slide the first sheet into the narrow oven and Chanyeol was right--in no time the whole room starts to smell like a torturous blend of hot buttered toast and caramelizing brown sugar.  Yifan’s gut contracts in anticipation of the taste and he really hopes these cookies turn out.  It’s been way too long since he’s gotten homemade choco chip cookies all gooey on his fingers.

“It is now 10:17,” Chanyeol announces, checking his watch.  They’re crowded together in front of the oven door, shoulder to shoulder, thighs bumping whenever someone shifts.

“Yeah?”  Yifan swallows down a yawn.

“Yeah,” Chanyeol whispers, slowly turning to face Yifan.  “It’s 10:17 and I’m hungry.”  He inclines his head until their noses brush, his eyes careful and searching.  Yifan blinks, willing his gaze not to bounce to the security camera, and closes the distance with a soft press of his lips to the tip of Chanyeol’s nose.

Chanyeol’s face melts into a grin and he knocks their foreheads together before claiming Yifan’s mouth in a sloppy kiss.  Yifan nips at the corner of his lips until he pulls back with a giggle.

“Mm!  You taste good.” 

Yifan snorts at him but Chanyeol presses his hands down on Yifan’s shoulders before he can think of escaping.  “Still hungry, though.”

“We can take care of that.”  Yifan shifts forward on his knees, cradling Chanyeol’s jaw with one hand and his hip with the other.  Chanyeol’s tongue teases at the seam of his lips and Yifan opens for him, gasping at the sudden heat.  He would probably choke on the words if he tried to say them out loud, but he thinks Chanyeol tastes good, too.

They pull apart reluctantly as the timer goes off.  Chanyeol stays where he is for a moment, legs splayed across the linoleum, mouth open and panting.  Yifan fumbles the oven mitts because he doesn’t want to look away.  Chanyeol’s cheeks are flushed a soft pink and he has the laziest expression on his face, like he just drank a mug of hot chocolate while someone massaged his shoulders.  His eyes again have a softness to their dark depths, their affection velvet and enveloping, Yifan realizes with a pang as he silences the timer.

Chanyeol finally staggers to his feet and pulls open the oven door when Yifan turns to grab the spatula.  As soon as the second batch is in, Chanyeol steals a cookie off the wire cooling rack.

“Ah!  Hot!” he moans as he tears the steaming round in two, dark chocolate smearing over his fingertips.  “You want some?”  He blows lightly on the larger half and holds it out.

“You little sneak.  You’re the taste tester, remember?”  Yifan folds his arms across his chest, knuckles tucked into his armpits, and pretends to glare.

“Oh god.”  Chanyeol tosses his head and leans forward, his elbows propped on the edge of the sink.  He pops half the cookie in his mouth and the chocolate from his thumbs.  “Are you gonna wait thirty minutes to see if I die of food poisoning before you taste?”

“Hm,” Yifan taps his thumb against his chin.  “Not sure I have the willpower to wait that long.  How are they?”  Chanyeol presses his lips together, blinks.

“Not that bad, considering.  I think the extra chocolate makes up for any deficiencies.”  He crams another whole cookie in his mouth, crumbs clinging to the edges of his smile. 

“Then get over here and feed me,” Yifan says.   

“Ok.  Open up!”  Chanyeol’s face looks so happy, even the skin across the bridge of his nose creasing in laugh lines, that Yifan’s tight smirk fractures into a gummy smile.  He steps forward and a smudge of chocolate from the corner of Chanyeol’s mouth instead of accepting the bite in his hand.  Chanyeol chuckles deep in his throat as Yifan pulls away.

“Mm, good.”

“Absolutely!”  Chanyeol’s wink twists his whole face even brighter, his slick lips fall open as his jaw drops.  “Bon appetit.”

Yifan grabs him by the belt loops and shoves him up against the counter.  The dry heat from the oven wafts between their legs and seeps into the stiff fabric of his jeans.  Chanyeol a hot stripe across the gentle sweep of Yifan’s upper lip and Yifan nips back, Chanyeol’s fingers tightening around his biceps.

Yifan presses soft kisses down the line of his jaw before angling his chin to press closer.  His hands leave Chanyeol’s hips to slide up his back.  Chanyeol opens with a soft sigh, his voice darkening as he bites down, bittersweet.  Yifan crushes their lips together, once, twice, before drawing back to breath in Chanyeol’s sharp, clean scent.

Chanyeol is panting short gasps between his curled up lips, his eyelashes fluttering in time with the little tremors scurrying across his shoulders.  He inhales a deep breath and releases it in a soft giggle.

“So good,” Yifan murmurs, pressing his forehead into Chanyeol’s until their lips brush.  When they’re this close, just heat and breath and touch, he doesn’t have to think too hard.  He can stop trying and just be.  

“This is what love smells like, I think,” Chanyeol says.  His restless fingers roam the planes of Yifan’s back with skimming touches.

“Like brown sugar and butter?”

“Mm hm,” Chanyeol hums as he steals a kiss.  “And you.”  Yifan presses forward but Chanyeol tilts his head, diverting Yifan’s lips to his upturned cheek.  “Yifan, can I ask--”

“Less talking.  More you.”  I don’t want to talk about it.  Chanyeol’s strong fingers brush along his collarbone and Yifan shivers with the memory of cool hands sinking into his hair, long nails and tapered fingers the spanse of his scalp.   

“Ok.”  Chanyeol’s lips part around a bubble of nervous laughter, and he leans forward this time.

The door bangs open and they break apart, Chanyeol’s heel slamming into Yifan’s toes.  Pain and adrenaline course along his nerves in clashing waves as he clutches at the edge of the counter.

“Hey,” Jonghyun says, “I didn’t know anyone was still here and I saw the light on, so…”

“Hey,” Chanyeol says, lifting one arm in an awkward floppy wave.

“I forgot my gym bag in the office and just remembered all my extra grips are in here.”  Jonghyun pats the duffle hanging from his shoulder.  His yellow hair is a hand ruffled mess, falling into his eyes as soon as he pushes it back. 

“Oh yeah, the badminton intramurals start pretty early tomorrow, huh?” Chanyeol’s voice sounds completely normal, except for a husky gravel to it that sets Yifan’s nerves on edge.

“Yup!  I’ll need my lucky sweat bands for sure.”  Yifan drops his gaze to the floor.  He did miss a spot of flour while sweeping, he notices now, and he’s itching to pull out the clorox wipes and obliterate it.

“Good luck tomorrow!”  Chanyeol waves again, his fingers flexing around a handful of air.  Jonghyun coughs into his fist and Chanyeol shuffles his feet, adjusting the press of his hips against the counter.  Yifan tries not to jerk as their thighs brush.

“Uh, sorry again, but is something burning?”

“!”  Yifan whirls around and Chanyeol dives towards the island for the hot pads and spatula.

“Oops!  Forgot to set the timer, hehe!”  Chanyeol barks out a strained laugh in Jonghyun’s direction as he shoves the oven mitts on Yifan’s hands.  Yifan already has the oven door open and he coughs as the acrid scent of burnt chocolate fills the breathing space.

“Do you guys need anything, or?”  Jonghyun hesitates in the doorway, one hand sliding up the polished wood of the doorframe.  Yifan pulls out the tray and slides it onto the stove.  The cookies aren’t completely blackened, but the one in the left corner is smoking.  He flings it off the sheet into the puddle of water pooled next to the sink drain.

“We’re good!  Thanks though!” Chanyeol calls.  Foul steam hisses into Yifan’s eyes.

“Ok, well, goodnight.”  Jonghyun shoves off the doorframe with a wave.

“See you Monday.  Fighting!”

When Yifan turns around to wipe his eyes Chanyeol is still standing by the island, one hand clasped around his other arm.  The dark plaid of his shirt is stark between his splayed fingers.  The open door yawns into the black echo of hallway behind him.

“I’m sorry.”  Chanyeol’s voice fills the corridor but Yifan knows the apology was meant for him.  Yifan just shakes his head as he scrapes the rest of the ruined batch into the trash.  The edge of his spatula catches on a patch of burnt sugar.

“Don’t be.  It’s fine.”

“Ok,” Chanyeol says, and quietly closes the door. 

It’ll be fine, Yifan repeats to himself as he spoons out the dough for the next batch.

******

He wakes up to a kakao message in the group chat from Zitao: u guys made cookies?? r they any good?

depends on ur definition of good!! Chanyeol’s reply comes less than a minute later.

ahahaha!...i’ll pass.

Yifan thumbs over Zitao’s last message with a fond smile, trying to pull a response from his fuzzy brain that’s more substantial than a one-word answer.  He hits the backspace and gives up with a groan, sliding his phone onto his nightstand, but another notification pops up before his fingers leave the case.

Henry’s snapchat is a pouty selca.  He’s pulling down the bags under his eyes with splayed fingers and the messy red text across his forehead says, where r u dude ur LATE

Yifan sits up with a start and double checks the date on his phone calendar.  Oh yeah, Henry was supposed to call today.

Sorry, just woke up, he texts back and makes sure his phone is on wi-fi.

For the first ten minutes Yifan just listens, lets Henry get all of the chatter about orchestra rehearsals and accounting midterms out of his system.  Yifan hums at appropriate intervals, sighing in resignation when he tries and can’t get a word in edgewise.

“How’s work though?” Henry asks when he finally runs out of breath.  “I mean besides the obvious.”

“The obvious being?”  Yifan’s brain feels a little more alive now but his voice is still scratchy with sleep.  He in a breath and waits.  

“Well, have you made any friends?”  Of course Henry would start drilling him on his social life when Yifan’s too sleepy to deflect his questions.  Yifan in a breath and waits.

“Some six-year-olds shared their M & M’s with me.  And the art teacher’s pretty cool.  I hung out with him last night.”

“Oh yeah?  What’s his name?”

“Park.”

“Ah, I think Amber’s mentioned him before, but I’m not sure.  Is Yixing keeping you busy?”  Yifan brushes a thumb over his knuckles.  The skin is still cracked where he spilled bleach on himself last week, but the tiny pricks of raw inflammation are scabbed over.

“I helped him transplant a ton of bulbs last week.  They look like onions.”  Henry’s laugh crackles, hot grease and eggshell in an empty skillet.   

“He texted to complain you wouldn’t sign up for some sports tournament.”

“Oh, the intramurals.  They’re today, actually.”  Yifan hopes someone there eats their cookies.  Chanyeol might be sad if there are too many leftover.

“And you didn’t join because?”

“There was no basketball.  And they take their badminton matches really seriously.”  Yifan’s hands sweat too much to hold a racquet comfortably.  Sica always beat him, especially on the tennis court.

“Dude.”  Henry makes an impatient noise in his throat.  “You should get out of your comfort zone.  Try something new.”

“Everyone keeps telling me that.”  His mom, his senior advisor, Jess.  It’s been a few months since he’s heard it though.

“Then you should take the hint and listen.”

“What does that even mean though.”  Yifan’s already moved halfway across the world and he wouldn’t call his office crowded with drying mop heads and dusty boxes of zip ties and old fruit crates ‘comfortable’.

“That’s for you to figure out,” Henry sniffs, “and for me to comment on from my beanbag chair.”

“Are you drinking Guinness right now in front of the hockey game.” 

Henry makes a loud slurping noise, chuckling as he swallows.

“I hate you.”    

“More than badminton?”

Yifan just grunts at the glib amusement in his tone.  “Well anyway, Yixing said to tell you you should make a basketball sign up next semester.  They have a faculty tournament in the spring, too.”

“Why didn’t he just tell me himself,” Yifan grumbles.  It’s warm in his bed but his mouth is dry, papery under his tongue.  It’s seriously time for laundry and a shower.

“You never visit him in his office, and he didn’t want to intrude on yours.”  Henry’s voice sounds thick, like he’s holding back a yawn.

“Which office did he mean, the one with the phone or the flower bed out front?”

“Haha!  I always forget why I miss you, Benben.  But you’re funny.”  The yawn makes it out of his throat this time.  It hisses in Yifan’s ear.  

“Go to sleep, lameass.  And tell Yixing I said hello.”

“Will do.”

Yifan flops over in bed as soon as the line clicks and pulls the covers over his ears.  He’s still thirsty, but that can wait.  He tosses his phone onto a pile of laundry by his door, safely out of reach so he’s not tempted to thumb through old texts in his drafts folder.  For now, sleep.  

******

“Hello?”  Yifan stumbles over the phone greeting in Korean because it’s an unknown number.  He doesn’t get many calls these days, only from Henry and his landlady.

“Ge,” Zitao says in a sleepy voice.  “Hey.”

“Oh, you, hi,” Yifan mumbles.  His lips are thick with dehydration from breathing through his mouth.  They turned the heat on at school last week.  “Aren’t we meeting later?  Am I late?”  He twists to check the clock on the wall behind him.  It’s only 4:45.  The green battery light on the mac pack flashes placidly on the fruit crate next to his empty coffee can.

“No,” Zitao laughs, voice gliding from his lowest register into a high pitched yawn.  “But Chanyeol hyung can’t make it.  He said to tell you in case you didn’t check your messages.”

“Oh,” Yifan says, blushing uncomfortably.  He did forget to check them after lunch.  “Then...are we rescheduling?  Or just meeting later?”

“Neither,” Zitao sniffs.

“Neither?”

“Unless there’s a reason you’re avoiding me,” he purrs.  His voice sounds just as sticky with sleep as Yifan’s but there is still a demanding lilt to his tone that has Yifan sitting up straighter. 

“Oh, oh no!  That’s not what I meant at all!”  Yifan slumps back against his chair, the broken left wheel scuffing with a squeak against the scarred tile. 

“Perfect.  I’ll see you there at 6:00.  Don’t be late.” 

******

Yifan arrives at the park at 5:47 and is still waiting when Zitao shows up at ten past 6:00 on a skateboard.  Yifan pulls himself to his feet with a limp wave as Zitao veers to a stop, braking with the thick rubber heel of his purple sneaker.

“Yo,” Zitao says, adjusting the cuffs of his zip up hoodie and tossing the end of a tassled silver scarf over his shoulder.  “You hungry?  I’m hungry.”

“Starved.”  Yifan’s been thinking about food and dinner and restaurants and food since Zitao woke him up this afternoon.  And also about why Chanyeol canceled last minute and didn’t bother to tell him in person.  Or maybe he did try while Yifan was asleep. 

Zitao hops off the board and flips it into the crook of his arm with his shoe.  There’s a lime green stripe down the center of the black griptape and it matches his laces.  “No puppy today?”  Yifan sneaks his fingers into his side pockets.  The breeze is heavy and damp, a hint of rain behind the gusts.  He should have worn a scarf today, too.  

“I didn’t know where you’d want to eat, so I left him at home.”  Zitao stretches his neck, angling his chin up in a slow arc.  He’s not as tall as Chanyeol but he moves in long, stretchy lines. 

“Anywhere’s fine with me.”  Yifan eyes the thin lining of Zitao’s cotton sweater and hopes they eat inside somewhere. 

“You always let Chanyeol hyung pick the place, huh?”  Zitao is squinting at him in amusement.  He flicks one of his wheels and it whirs on the truck, an orange plastic blur. 

“Well,” Yifan pulls his hands free of his pockets to spread them.  “I don’t know the city at all.  I’ve only been here a month.”

“You mean you’ve already been here two months,” Zitao corrects with a smug little pout.    “Actually, almost three.  It’s ok, dude, we both know you don’t get out much, but I love you anyway.”  Yifan is about to punch his shoulder and splutter a sarcastic denial, but when he meets Zitao’s eyes they’re bright with sincerity, the lines of his mouth lax in a gentle smile.  “So come on, tonight you can pick where we go.”

“How gallant of you, good sir.”  Yifan dips his head in a mock bow. 

“Well, you are the one paying!” Zitao says with a little more glee than necessary, and this time Yifan does punch him, slinging an arm around his narrow shoulders when Zitao trips on a neon shoe lace.

“Do you know any good places for char siu bao?”  Yifan lets Zitao’s thin arm slip around his waist as they head for the street, the knit cotton of his hoodie clinging to the rough canvas of Yifan’s jacket.  

“In Seoul, yes.  Here, no.” 

Yifan sighs in disappointment, not that he was really expecting anything different in answer.  The street lights are already on though the sky is still the translucent dirty gray of late autumn twilight and cold dishwater.      

They end up at a shabu shabu place and order way too many dumplings.  Zitao piles the frozen lumps into the hot broth as soon as the first platter arrives, overcrowding the pan and slowing the boil to a standstill.  Yifan picks out the handful of greens that managed to steam before the temperature drop.  He lets Zitao eat most of them, separating the veiny wads of cabbage from the bits of spinach with the tips of his chopsticks. 

“How was your week?”  Zitao in a scrap of beet greens, the red stem staining his teeth as he chews.

“Not bad.”  Yifan pokes at a ring of green onion, the layers sliding apart like a retractable spyglass.  “I just worked all week.”

“Yeah?  And how do you feel about work?”

“It’s fun, but…”  Yifan stirs the puddle of broth in his bowl, tracking the flecks of black pepper along the steaming eddies until he feels dizzy.  He hates explaining how he feels about things until he’s worked them out in his head.  He still has a lot of thinking to do about school. 

“But?”  Zitao’s eyes are sharp but he’s watching jetstreams of tiny bubbles stagger to the surface of the broth, exploding wider and wider against the doughy seams of the dumplings and the polished steel of the pot. 

“School is loud.  Like I told Chanyeol, children aren’t very good at hiding their distress.”

“Well, duh.”  Zitao nudges a dumpling with his chopsticks, coaxing it onto its back to expose its soft underbelly. 

“What do you know about kids?”  The dumplings are almost ready, the wrappers slick against his chopsticks when he stirs.  

“Touche.”  Zitao dips up a dumpling with his wide spoon, blows on it until a cloud of steam envelops his chin.  If Chanyeol were here he’d fog up his glasses before he got the first bite past his lips.  “I know about dogs, though,” Zitao says, “and that’s almost the same thing.”

“I see.”  Yifan divides his first dumpling into thirds with his chopsticks.  The gray pork filling is dark with spices and bits of sesame.  “And what do you know about dogs?” 

“It takes a brave man to take care of something vulnerable.”  His dark eyes glisten through the dissipating steam and Yifan swallows half a dumpling without chewing. 

“No wonder I always kill houseplants.”  Yifan’s laugh feels rough in his throat, the burn of too much sodium.  He takes a sip of tea.  “I almost killed my cousin’s hamster, too.  In third grade.”

“Third grade of elementary, or third grade of high school?”  Zitao’s smirk is greasy, his lips shiny with pork fat.  “Hey!” he squeaks at Yifan’s deft kick to his shin. 

“That was elementary, obviously.”  Yifan turns down the flame under their pan and adds more mushrooms with the tongs. 

“Well, even if you still can’t keep a cactus alive, you seem pretty brave to me.”  Zitao stares down at bowl and then lifts his gaze with a serious nod.  “That supply closet in the back of school is like a whole ‘nother dimension.”

“Brave.”  Yifan forgoes kicking him again and focuses on adding the remaining bean sprouts to the pan, dropping them one by one into the broth. 

“Anybody who moves to another country to be ‘that foreign student’ is brave, ge.”  Zitao in a curl of white onion.  “Trust me, I know.”

“Maybe at first I was.  Brave.”  Yifan’s palms are clammy against the stiff denim of his jeans.  He can feel his own heat through the layers.  “But now…”  It gets easier, as cliche as that sounds.  The suffocating pressure of the empty rooms in his apartment has dulled.  He doesn’t get lost on the bus anymore and the old man at the fruit store at the end of his block gives him a few apples as service if he buys a whole box.  “Once you get used to things they’re not as...intimidating.”  Scary.  Constraining. 

“Yup.  Because no matter where you are there’s always room for complacency.”  Zitao his lips, his eyes on the last dumpling cooling on the plate. 

“Taking philosophy classes at your art school?”  Yifan spoons the chunks of spongy mushroom onto the plate and slides it closer to Zitao. 

“No,” Zitao says.  His cup is empty and he peeks to make sure Yifan’s is still full before refilling his own.  “But isn’t that what artists are always fighting?”  Yifan’s fingers are stiff around the tongs, stiff like the folds of his spent brains.  Stale, old, boring, rigid.

“I guess, yeah.”  Your stylization has clean composition, Yifan, but it’s really stiff.  You need to show unique perspective. 

“It never hurts to experiment, try something new.  You can always change things again if you don’t like the results.”

“Hmm.  My cousin told me almost the same thing.”  Does getting flour in his eyebrows, melted chocolate and melted Chanyeol smeared across his tongue count as something new? 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get plenty of chances as long as you stay at that school.  Chanyeol hyung oughta take care of that.”  Yifan looks up sharply, but Zitao is grinning down at his bowl.  He stretches his lips and eats the last three dumplings in one mouthful, the wrappers soggy from soaking in the salty broth and melting off the lumps of spicy meat onto his large spoon.

“So how come you’re friends with Chanyeol?”  Yifan knows the two are close, but he’s not sure what kind of things they have to talk about, other than art.  He’s not sure if Chanyeol would have told him...

“Are you asking how we met?  Or why we still hang out?”  Zitao drains another cup of lukewarm tea.  Yifan shrugs, hands him a napkin when he can’t reach the dispenser.  “I guess we’re friends because hyung accepts pretty much anyone, even people who don’t deserve his attention.”  He chews thoughtfully on a stray spinach stem for a moment.  “Especially the people who don’t deserve it.”

“Yeah.”  Yifan studies the tips of his shoes, the faded canvas vamps, the wavery edge of cleaner residue where he tried to strip the rubber toe caps from the dingy gray buildup of dirt.  

“I didn’t mean you though,” Zitao says, poking the back of Yifan’s hand with his spoon handle.  “Or me either,” he laughs under his breath, and Yifan’s heart twinges at the quiet smile lighting his features, half hidden as he ducks his chin into his popped collar.

“One more round?” Zitao asks, head tilted in question.  Yifan shoots him a skeptical glare, still picking at the cold lumps of boiled greens on his plate that he doesn’t have room for but feels guilty for wasting.

“I think…” he pats his stomach with the heel of his hand.  “Yup, I think I’m full.”

“Aw, ok,” Tao sighs, eyeing the menu with longing.  They haven’t tried the triple meat filled dumplings yet, but there’s always next time.  “I guess I’m full enough now we can move on to dessert.”

“Ok,” Yifan yawns, reaching for the shallow black tray with their check.  “Wait, what?  Dessert?”

Yifan has no idea how the skinny kid across from him--who looks like he does nothing but nap in meadows and on top of cash registers and doodle in the margins of his design textbooks--has the internal space and metabolism to consume as much as a small elephant.  But twenty minutes later he finds himself next to Zitao in the booth of a dessert cafe after a few stops for odeng and hodeok on the way.

“This was fun.”  Yifan stirs his iced coffee with his straw, still to full to actually drink it.  “I kinda wish it could happen again sometime.”   

“You do realize you can hang out with me without Chanyeol hyung, right.”  Zitao blinks slowly, his hands wrapped around the lid of his bubble tea.

“Huh?”

“Not that we don’t like him or anything, but just speaking Chinese is nice sometimes.”  Zitao sighs, his hollow cheeks puffing out, and a bite of cheesecake from his tiny fork. 

“Oh, yeah, it is!” Yifan realizes with a slow smile, stretching his arms up to crack his back.  “This is nice.”  The light fixtures hanging from the ceiling are assembled out of panes of clear plastic, the surfaces painted with patterns of white curlicues to look like chandeliers.  Everything inside is white, actually, from the lace curtains to the barista’s canvas apron.  The cafe is obviously a place for couples, but Yifan doesn’t mind if they’re the only platonic relationship in the room.  Right now he’s mostly glad for a place to sit while his stomach decompresses.  

“And you have, like, no other friends in town,” Zitao says, spreading graham cracker dust in a spiral across his plate, “so you should fix that by hanging with me.”

“Sure.  Call me anytime.”  Yifan smiles indulgently around his straw and Zitao’s face melts upward into a sticky grin.

“Sweet!  I love chicken, and beef, and pork, and ice cream, and dumplings.  But mostly beef and ice cream.  I’ll definitely call you!”  He sets his drink down on Yifan’s carefully folded napkin, the pearls of condensation bleeding into a wet mark just off center.  He lets his back slide down the vinyl booth until his shoulders are pillowed on Yifan’s chest.

“And I hope cuddling doesn’t bother you, because cuddling is love.  Also, I 100% only, so you don’t have to worry about Channie hyung getting jealous.”  He lifts his head to wink at Yifan.

“Um, ok,” Yifan says and lightly pats the top of Zitao’s hair.  The red highlights have faded since Yifan first met him, less cranberry and more of a burgundy glow.  He wonders what Chanyeol would look like with red hair, dark glasses framed by red waves.  

“Sweet,” Zitao says again, so soft this time it’s almost an inaudible hum, and flexes his fingers to reach for his tea.

******

“I heard you had dinner with Tao.”  Chanyeol sets down his paint brush and rests his chin in his palm.  His pinky finger smears a stripe of blue up his cheek. 

“Dinner?  More like an eating marathon.”  Yifan tears another trash bag from the roll and shakes it out, snapping air down to the gathered bottom.  He had to stay late again for the trash today and the art room is his last stop on the way back to the storage area.  “Is Tao into speed eating?”  Chanyeol laughs, spluttering on a swig of coffee.  His mug has blue fingerprints around the handle. 

“Dude, I know, right?  He can eat more than me,” Chanyeol says, his voice dropping into a soft hush of awe.

“Yup.”  Yifan had to see it to believe it, but it’s the truth.

“Sorry for shoving him off on you, I really did have a lot of...work...stuff...to take care of.” 

Chanyeol gestures at the canvas spread over the counter.  He’s outlining the figures of the mural the kindergartners have been working on in class, a purple apple tree, a three headed zebra. 

“It’s cool.”  Yifan knots the top of the last bag and leans it against the door.  He just needs to wipe the sink down and then he can lock up his office.  He has eleven minutes to get down to the bus stop.  “No need to apologize.”

“I hope he didn’t cost you too much.”  Chanyeol tears a paper towel from the roll above the sink to wipe his hands on, though the paint on his fingers is mostly dried.  Yifan wrings his rag into the sink and hangs it over the faucet so it won’t mildew overnight. 

“Oh no, not at all.  He’s cute, so…”  Chanyeol laughs, bumping their hips together. 

“You’re a big softie, Mr. Fan.  Even if your eyebrows look like poisonous caterpillars petrified on your forehead.”

“Hey!”  Yifan turns to him with a glare, but his frown crumbles before it’s even in place.  Chanyeol has too many teeth and his voice is too loud and he is really, really beautiful. 

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” Chanyeol says, and he presses a soft kiss over his browbone.  Yifan backs away, his hand on Chanyeol’s shoulder. 

“Not right now, Yeol, I have too…”  Nine minutes.  He has nine minutes left and Chanyeol’s eyes are b with promises and it’s hard to look away.

“Ok.”  Chaneyol takes a step back, still wiping his dry hands on the paper towel.  “This is your last room, right?  You want to stay for coffee?”

“I should leave,” Yifan says, “now.  My bus will be here any minute.”  He hates taking the last bus home, waiting at the bottom of the hill under the broken street lamp in the cold.  There’s a grove of stunted plum trees on the corner but the bare branches don’t do much to block the wind.

“Then let me drive you.”  Chanyeol balances his paintbrush on his index finger, the saturated bristles dribbling onto the dropcloth thrown over the counter.  “I’m almost done.  Maybe one more hour?” 

“I have to be up at five.”  Yifan’s in the doorway now, gathering the trash bags onto his cart.  The chill of the hallway cuts through his thin latex gloves. 

“Ok.”  It’s a lame excuse, and they both know it.  With two transfers, his bus route takes more than an hour.  If he waits for Chanyeol the car ride would only be twenty minutes, maybe fifteen since there’s no traffic this late.  “Be safe.”

“Sorry, Yeol.  And thanks for the offer.”  Chanyeol’s broad shoulders look almost frail as he hunches over the counter in the otherwise empty room.  Yifan backs down the hall with a smile until he rounds the corner, then sprints the rest of the way.     

******

He missed the 14 bus so he takes the 12, which means Yifan has to walk twenty minutes from the nearest stop to his building.  It’s Thursday night and it’s cold, his lips numb and probably blue above the bright band of the plaid scarf swaddled around his neck.

It’s late and it’s dark and he’s walking home to his kind of ty apartment in his not-the-nicest neighborhood when he spots a tiny figure sitting on the curb.  He’s huddled in the pool of light under a streetlamp, a rice ball folded in roasted seaweed cradled in his small hands.  He lifts a hand to wave at Yifan in surprise.

“Baekhyun?  What are you doing out here?” Yifan asks.  He waves back, looking around for some sign of adult supervision.  The street is quiet, not even a stray cat digging through the garbage piled on the corner for morning pickup.           

“My house.”  Baekhyun points at the building behind him.  “I live here.”

“Where’s your dad?” 

“I dunno.”  Baekhyun shrugs and picks a grain of rice off the seaweed wrapper.  His coat is ped and he’s not wearing gloves.  Yifan curls his fingers tighter into the lining of his pockets and frowns. 

“Where’s your mom?”

“Imo comes back at eleven.”  Baekhyun bites down on the top corner of his samgak kimbap, softly on the dry seaweed.  His fingers look red in the yellow light, cold.  Yifan wants to prop him on his hip, wrap his scarf over his narrow shoulders and take Baekhyun back to his apartment and feed him hot soup and apple chunks at his kitchen counter.

Baekhyun wipes his nose on his sleeve, the wet smear glistening in the yellow light, and takes another bite.  Yifan hands him a stick of gum from the bottom of his bag and waves goodbye.  He turns back to tell Baekhyun to go right in after eating, even if he has to wait for his aunt in the stairwell.  He waits for Baekhyun’s squint eyed smile goodbye before he can lift his feet and drift around the corner.

All he can think of--that night, the next morning--is the afternoon he came home to his father’s empty slippers in a jumbled heap by the front mat and an empty wine bottle rolling on the floor outside his mother’s bedroom door.  He had dropped his power rangers backpack in the hall, using both hands and all of his panic to rattle the handle.  Once he gave up on the door he lingered and listened to her muffled sobs for awhile, his back pressed up against the cold radiator in the hall.  Her door stayed locked all night.

Yifan knew how to pick the lock with a safety pin or a toothpick, but instead he got the kitchen stool and pulled a sausage from the top shelf of the fridge all by himself.  He went outside and ate the whole thing cold by the flickering light of the oil station sign across the intersection.  Leaded, Unleaded, Premium.  Quality Diesel Here.  That was the night he learned to love picnics, but only ones that happen during the day, the more company the better.

The next time Yifan drinks too much soju in front of the TV on his kitchen counter his jeans feel too tight and room feels too square.  He goes for a bus ride and gets off in front of Chanyeol’s building.  He gets out of the elevator on the fourteenth floor and climbs to the top of the last flight of stairs, then turns around and sits on the steps halfway down.  It’s a Friday night, and it’s cold.  He sends Henry three selcas from his phone gallery he probably should delete.  Then he stands up, climbs back to the top, and picks the lock to Chanyeol’s door.

Well, not exactly, since he uses the key Chanyeol slipped to him at lunch a few days before.  But somehow walking up to the door with the guest light off and entering the quiet house without a greeting feels more like a break in than a visit to a friend.  

A friend, a loyal friend.  Chanyeol is a friend.  Amber’s words in Zhou Mi’s voice echo in the cavity of his dry mouth as he pulls off his sneakers.  His socks feel too tight, the elastic constricting around his arches, so he pulls those off too.

“Yifan?”  Chanyeol rubs his eyes, hunched in the doorway to his bedroom, and snaps on the hall light.  Yifan claps a hand over his eyes so the light will stop parching them.  It doesn’t work, though.  Even through the layer of his fingers his eyes squelch like olives in a jar of brine.

“Chanyeol,” he says.  “Thirsty.”

The next time a yawning Chanyeol tucks a slightly too drunk Yifan into his own bed, he leans down to brush chapped lips across Yifan’s eyelids.  Their noses bump as he withdraws.  Instead of squeezing Chanyeol’s hand goodnight and thank you and I’m sorry, Yifan tightens his fingers around Chanyeol’s wrist.  Please.

And Chanyeol must understand, because he lifts a corner of the blanket and Yifan curves around his body to make space for him as he slides onto the mattress, his feet tangling with Yifan’s as he wraps him up in his arms and just holds him.

******